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9QQ^g§ 

THE 

WILLIAM  R.  PERKINS 

LIBRARY 

OF 
DUKE  UNIVERSITY 


Rare  Books 


/ 


</* 


LORD  BYRON'S 

FAREWELL  TO  ENGLAND, 

AND 

OTHER  LATE  POEMS; 

Including  an  entire  copy  (now  first  printed)  of  hh 

CURSE  OF  MINERVA: 

together  with 

AN  ORIGINAL  BIOGRAPHY. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY  HOSES   THOMAS. 
J.  Maxwell,  printer' 

IS16. 


District  of  Pennsylvania,  to  wit: 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  the  eighth  da? 

of  August,  in  the  fortieth  year  of  the  Independent 

of  the   United  States  of  America,  A.  D  1816;  Mose 

Thomas  of  the  said  District,  hath  deposited  in  this  of 

fice  the  title  of  a  hook,  the  right  whereof  he  clainv 

as  proprietor,  in  the  words  following,  to  wit: 

Lord  Byron's  Fare-well  to  England,  and  other  latepo 

ems,-  including  an  entire  copy  (now  first  printed)  o 

his  Curse  of  Minerva:  together  -with  An  Ongiru 

Biography. 

In  conformity  to  the  act  of  the  Congress  of  the  Un 

ted  States,  entitled,  «  An  act  for  the  encouragemer 

"  of  learning,  bv  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  chain 

«■  and  books,  to"  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  sue 

"  copies  during  the  times  therein  mentioned.       An, 

also  to  the  act,  entitled,   "  An  act  supplementary  t 

*»  an  act,    entitled,  "  An  act  for   the  encouragemer 

"  of  learnine;,  bv  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  chart, 

"  and   books",  to  the  authors  and  propiietors  of  sue 

"  copies  during  the  times  therein  mentioned,  and  e: 

"  tending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  desig 

"  ing,    engraving,   and  etching,  historical  and   oth 

"  prints." 
1  DAVID  CALDWELL, 

Clerk  of  the  jDistvicl  of  Peunsylvanit 


i      w  (3 


CONTENTS. 

Biographical  and  Critical  Memoir  of  the  Author,    vii 

Farewell  to  England, 47 

rhe  Curse  of  Minerva,         -------60 

Dde  to  the  Island  of  St.  Helena, 75 

ro  my  Daughter  on  the  morning  of  her  hirth,         79 
["o  the  Lily  of  France,     --.-....g4 

ifadame  Lavalette,      .........     87 

kdieu  to  Malta,  -•-......89 

rhe  Triumph  of  the  Whale,      ......     92 

Jnes,  on  visiting  the  tomh  of  the  Capulets,  -     -     94 
teply  to  Mr.  Fitzgerald,      --.....95 

additional  Stanza  to  a  Lady  Weeping,     -     -     .    ^§ 


AN  ORIGINAL 
BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL 

MEMOIR 

OF 

LORD  BYRON. 

This  is  perhaps  the  fullest  collection  now  ex- 
tant of  lord  Byron's  works.  As  the  muse  of  the 
noble  author  seldom  relapses  into  indolence,  the 
present  edition  has,  while  in  press,  been  receiving 
continual  augmentations  of  volume;  and  we  are  by 
no  means  sure  that  it  will  now  reach  the  shelves  of 
the  bokseller  before  some  other  of  his  lordship's 
effusions  will  have  crossed  the  Atlantic*  It  is  as* 
serted  in  some  of  the  English  journals  that  he  has 
quitted  his  native  country,  perhaps  for  ever;—- and  as 
he  may  therefore  be  considered  as  civiliter  mortuus, 
his  friends  and  his  booksellers  exhibit  a  kind  of 
posthumous  avidity  for  every  unpublished  driblet 
that  may  have  dropped  from  his  pen-  Pamphlets 
adorned  with  hi&  portrait,  followed  up  by  his  me- 

*  This  article  is  intended  for  the  complete  edi-ion  of  lord 
Syron's  poems  which  are  shortly  to  appear;  but  as  our  predio- 
ion  has  been  verified  before  it  went  to  press,  we  have  conclu4« 
5d  to  prefix  it  to  the  present  volume  of  his  resent  poems. 


Vlll 

moirs,  and  containing  more  or  fewer  of  his  new 
Poems,  are  constantly  issuing  from  the  various  Bri- 
tish presses;  and  it  will  be  rather  unfortunate  if  the 
noble  poet  has  left  in  England  any  stanzas  of  his 
production  which  he  never  intended  for  public  pe- 
rusal. 

It  is  by  no  means  an  unnatural  or  a  blame-wor- 
thy curiosity  which  prompts  one  to  see  all  the  wri- 
tings of  a  poet  who  stands  so  deservedly  eminent 
as  the  subject  of  this  article, — more  especially  as 
the  steps  which  he  has  lately  taken  would  lead 
us  to  conclude,  that  we  shall  not  very  soon  enjoy 
any  more  of  his  eifusions:  and  as  we  know  our  rea- 
ders  partake  a  great  deal  of  English  feeling  in  lite- 
rary as  well  as  in  other  affairs,  we  suppose  a  brief 
memoir  of  lord  Byron  will  not  be  an  unacceptable 
accompaniament  to  the  present  edition  of  his 
poems. 

His  family  is  so  ancient  as  to  be  enrolled  in 
the  Dooms-day  book  of  William  the  Conqueror,  and 
so  illustrious  as  to  be  connected  with  the  House  of 
Stuart.  Almost  all  his  ancestors  have  contributed 
to  sustain  the  reputation  of  the  name  by  their  con- 
duct and  achievements  in  private  as  well  as  in  pub- 
lie  life;  and  perhaps  there  is  not  a  peer  in  England 
who  can  vie  with  lord  Byron  in  the  uniform  res- 
pectability of  his  family.  A  bare  list  of  his  ances- 
try  would  occupy  about  as  much  room  as  we  have 


IX 

Plotted  to  the  present  Memoir;  and  we  shall  there- 
ore  take  but  one  or  two  steps  of  retrogression  in 
»hat  little  we  have  to  say  of  his  descent. 

William  Byron  was  the  son  of  one  of  seven  bro- 
ilers who  were  distinguished  for  military  prowess, 
»nd  for  a  vehement  attachment  to  Charles  the  first. 
LIpon  his  death,  in  1695,  William,  the  eldest  of  five 
sons,  succeeded  to  the  family  inheritance;  and  as 
tie  died  without  issue  in  1798,  the  estate  descended 
to  his  great  nephew,  the  subject  of  our  biographi- 
cal notice. 

George  Gordon  Byron  is  maternally  related  to 
the  last  of  that  branch  of  the  family  which  descended 
From  the  princess  Jane  Stuart,  daughter  of  James 
II,  and  was  born  on  the  22nd  of  January,  1788. 
Some  part  of  his  early  life  was  spent  in  Scotland; 
of  which  we  know  very  little  more,  except  that  he 
has  incurred  the  exprobation  of  Scottish  critics  for 
not  learning  to  distinguish  between  the  pibroch  and 
the  bagpipe,  and  that  he  has  written  some  verses 
to  celebrate  one  of  the  Caledonian  Alps;  verses 
which  are  apparently  in  imitation  of  one  of  Mr. 
Scott's  celebrated  ballads,  but  in  which  the  only  re- 
semblance consists  in  the  terminating  word  of  each 
stanza,— *  dark  Loch  na  Gar'  being  very  nearly 
analagoua  in  point  of  sound  to  '  Brave  Lochinvar.' 
The  education  of  lord  Byron  was  chiefly  receive 
ed  at  the  celebrated  school  in  Harrow,  though  it 
a2 


Xll 

Considered  merely  by  themselves — as  specimens  of 
poetic  excellence;  these  poems  exhibit  few  quali- 
ties which  are  calculated  to  insure  their  survival 
to  distant  posterity;  but  viewed  in  relation  to  the 
circumstances  of  the  author, — as  the  initial  effusions  I 
of  youthful  genius— they  most  certainly  deserve  a  i 
place  far  above  the  ordinary  mass   of  school-boy  i 
poetry.     The  tone  of  thought  almost  throughout,  is 
too  manly  for  a  boy;  and  much  of  the  verse  is  vi- 
gorous and  refined  beyond  the  generality  of  juve- 
nile productions.     It  must  be  acknowledged,  at  the 
same  time,  that  they  contain  many  contradictions 
and  inequalities  of  other  kinds  which,  all  together,  ' 
make  a  somewhat  heterogeneous  composition;  and 
perhaps  there  are  very  few  which  the  riper  age  of 
his  lordship  would  not  have  withholden  from  the 
press.     He  has  undoubtedly  left  the  footsteps  of 
genius  in  almost  every  page;  but  they  are  almost  as 
rare  as'the  tracks  of  men  on  the  island  of  Robinson 
Crusoe. 

We  have  two  ballads  on  Newstead  Abbey;  of  .1 
which  the  chief  merit  seems  to  be  the  accurate  ge- 
nealogical history  which  they  contain  of  that  vene- 
rable pile.*     There  are  several  dedicated  to  Mary* 
To  ,  and  to  three  or  four  letters  of  the  al- 

*  The  reader  may  as  well  be  apprised  that  this  Abbey— th« 
family  estate  of  all  the  Byron's  was  founded  by  Henry  I, 
about  the  year  1170,  as  a  priory  of  black  canons. 


Xlll 

ihabet;  some  of  which  contain  true  specimens  of 
entimental  bombast,  while  others  again  are  full  of 
mtural  pathos  and  fine  description;  in  one  he  puts 
»ut  the  firmament*  i a  praise  of  his  mistress,  and 
n  another  most  heartily  repents  him  of  every  thing 
le  had  said.f  The  story  of  Oscar  and  Alva,  is  by 
ar  the  longest  poem  in  the  volume:  yet  it  has  few 
poetical  claims  to  the  occupation  of  so  much  room, 
rhe  tale  is  pretty  enough,  we  admit;  but  it  is  not 
;old  in  a  way  that  adds  a  great  deal  to  interest.  Of 
;he  other  original  poems  we  cannot  be  expected  to 
ipeak  particularly;  and  our  general  opinion  has  been 
tlready  given. 

The  translations  and  imitations  ought  not  to  re- 
nain  unnoticed;  for  it  is  in  these,  after  all,  that 
he  noble  author  afforded  the  best  prognostics  of 
us  future  celebrity.  We  speak  of  them  as  the 
jreen  productions  of  youth,  not  as  the  mature  fruit 
if  riper  years;  as  the  exercises  of  a  boy  at  school, 
—not  as  the  effusions  of  a  man  in  society.  No- 
hing  can  be  more  fallacious  than  to  ascertain  the 
bilities  of  a  person  by  subjecting  his  juvenile  eff- 
orts to  the  general  standard  of  good  composition; 
ind  while  we  acknowledge  that  the  translations  of 

*  One  stanza  will  be  enough:— 

For  did  those  eyes  as  plannets  roll, 

Thy  sister  lights  would  scarce  appear: 

E'en  suns  which  systems  now  control 

Would  twinkle  dimly  through  their  sphere, 
t  Compare  the  odes  to  M  — ,  and  to  Romance,  pp.  14, 100 


XIV 


lord  Byron  are  too  crude  for  a  comparison   "with1 
those  of  his  predecessors,  we  may  claim  that  the jr1 
are  too  refined  to  be  ranked  with  the  generality  of- 
such  youthful  attempts.  Betides  the  usual  propen- 
sity of  youth,  to  inflate  an  laea  into  a  round  expres- 
sion, the  noble  author  has  indulged  himself  in  quite  ' 
too  great  a  latitude  of  paraphrasei  often  extending 
a  single  line  of  the  original  into  a  couplet  or  triplet ' 
of  the  translation,  and  sometimes  mingling  a  thought ' 
of  his  own  with  the  stream  of  his  prototype's  effu-- 
sions.  While  Virgil  is  conteuted  with  blood  enough 
to  bathe  a  lion's  mouth, — *fremit  o**e  cruento* — ' 
his  lordship  must  needs  plunge  him  into  seas  of1 
gore:' 

"  In  seas  of  gore  tbe  lordly  tyrant  foams." 

And  again,  in  the  translation  of  a  chorus  from  the 
Medea,  where  Euripides  employs  the  simple  but  en- 
ergetic expression — i/u.ot  /smv  <pt\oe  ov?rcr'  itett—1 
'*  let  me  never  have  such  a  friend,'  the  noble  writer1 
gives  us  another  specimen  of  his  predilection  for 
oceans:— 

a  May  such  a  friend  be  far  from  me 
And  Ocean's  storms  between  us  roll." 

These  are  by  no  means  offered  as  specimens  of  the 
general  translation;  while,  at  the  same  time,  they  are 
not  on  the  extreme  of  the  poet's  aberrations  from 


XV 

is  original.  Upon  the  whole,  then,  we  are  not  fa* 
lined  to  speak  very  extravagantly  in  favour  of  hia 
wdship's  early  poetry,  though,  on  the  other  hand, 
ire  think  his  "  Hours  o^Idleness"  could  not  be  pro- 
uced  by  an  ordinary  yoUth  in  his  hours  of  industry. 
lere,  however,  we  know  ourselves  to  be  differing 
rom  very  high  cotemporary  authority;  and  as  the 
loble  author  chanced  to,  fall  on  evil  tongues  in  his 
irst  appearance  before  the  public,  we  must  yet  fol- 
qw  the  destiny  of  hi&  juvenile  poems. 

The  readers  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  need  not 
ie  told  how  eager  its  conductor  has  always  shown 
limself  to  hunt  down  men  of  pretension  Plebeian 
pme  is  unworthy  of  a  shaft,  except  when  no  other, 
sat  hand:— =■■ 

Ductoresque  ipsospriraum  capita  alta  ferente? . 
sternit;  turn  valgus.  '  ■ 

i  lord,  above  all  men,  may  lay  his  account  with  re- 
eiving  abuse,  if  he  undertakes  to  amuse  or  to  en^ 
ighten  his  countrymen:,  it  suffices  that  nobility  is 
Hustrious  in  the  monarchy  of  government,  without 
ourting  distinction. in  the  republic  of  letters;  and 
ur  author  needed  not  the  second-sight  of  h»s  re* 
iewersto  have  foreknown  the  treatment  which  he 
lust  expect  at  their  hands  He  had  just  quitted  his 
chool: — no  adequate  retaliation  of  severity  could 
robably  come  from  a  writer  who  was  yet  in  hSs 


XVI 

minority;  and  it  was  resolved,  therefore,  to  display 
a  little  Scotch  magnanimity  in  having  some  sport, 
with  a  boy.  It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  subject 
of  the  Reviewer's  pleasantry  is  now  and  then  ex- 
hibited in  an  awkward  and*  ludicrous  predicament) 
but  throughout  the  whole  article  there  is  such  a 
destitution  of  candour — such  a  frivolous  disregard 
of  the  good  faith  which  every  public  critic  has  tacit- 
ly pledged  to  his  readers — such  a  contempt,  in 
short,  for  every  thing  like  ordinary  civility  of  man- 
ners — as  could  no  where  be  paralleled,  except,  per« 
haps,  in  some  other  pages  of  the  same  publication.. 
The  same  reviewers  who  could  cite  the  coarseness, 
of  Gifford  on  one  page,  and  ironically  transcribe  the 
« Attic  poetry'  of  lord  Byron  on  another,  could  give 
us  the  following  specimen  of  their  own  Attic  prose 
on  a  third:—"  Let  us  take  what  we  get  and  be 
thankful.  What  right  have  we  poor  devils  to  be 
nice?  We  are  well  off  to  have  got  so  much  from  i 
man  of  this  lord's  station,  who  does  not  live  in  i 
garret,  but  has  the  sway  of  Newstead  abbey.  Agaio 
we  say,  let  us  be  thankful;  and,  with  honest  Sancho 
bid  God  bless  the  giver,  nor  look  the  gift  horse  ii 
the  mouth" 

The  chuckling  of  these  gentlemen  was  shor 
lived:  in  the  very  honey-moon  of  their  glee,  tb< 
'poor  devils'  (as  they  justly  call  themselves)  wer. 
•Sauted  with  a  reciprocation  of  satire,  that  shut  u» 


XV11 


le  mouth  of  derision;  and  Seotch  reviewers  begaa 
,  discover  too  late  that  minority  was  not  so  harm- 
•ss  a  thing  as  they  at  first  imagined.  Here  was  no 
rifling  or  frivolity— no  abasement  of  vulgar  allu- 
ion— no  old  saws  from  Sancho  Panza,  or  quotations 
rom  the  Spelling-Book:  Ulysses  made  a  dignified 
pplication  of  "  the  weighty  sceptre;"  and  the  haek 
f  Thirsites  bent  under  the  salutary  blow. 

"  Ye  gods!  What  wonders  has  Ulysset  wrought! 

Ever  since  the  appearance  of  the  English  Bards 
nd  Scotch  Reviewers,  lord  Byron  has  not  been  ill- 
reated  at  Edinburgh:  on  the  contrary,  his  former 
iritics  have   exhibited  an  alacrity   of  repentance 
rtiich  is  truly  ridiculous.     Lord  Byron  can  no  lon- 
jer  write  amiss:  they  have  ready  excuses  for  every 
leparture  of  bad  taste:  they  condescend  to  admire 
i  passage  which  the  writer  himself  acknowledges 
sannot  be  understood  but  by  few  of  his  readers:  they 
laud  his  judgment  in  dealing  out  his  poetry  in  frag- 
ments— for  owing  to  the  degenerateness  of  modern 
taste,  his  readers  would  "no  more  think  of  sitting 
lown  to  a  whole  epic,  than  to  a  whole  ox"— as  if  a 
person  who  formerly  perused  a  whole  epic,  could 
eat  a  whole  ox:  and  when  they  come  to  the  depart- 
ment of  exhibiting  faults— alas!  "  It  would  proba- 
bly do  the  author  no  good  to  have  them  pointed 


xvm 

Qut  particularly  to  his  notice."*  What  a  pity  it  h 
that,  for  his  lordship's  own  sake,  this  discovery  cj 
his  contumacious  character  was  not  made  in  tbj 
year  1807! 

We  ought  not  to  omit  stating  that  there  ha^ 
been  a  surprising  change  of  conduct  on  botli  side^ 
of  this  silly  affair.  Scarcely  an  author  of  emineno, 
in  the  whole  compass  of  modern  poetry  has  no, 
been  more  or  less  satirized  in  the  English  Bard, 
and  Scotch  Reviewers.  Lord  Byron  professedl) 
relinquishes  the  helm  of  reasoo,f  and  abandons, 
himself  to  the  current  of  his  own  thoughts;  disv 
charging  his  ammunition  whichever  way  accident 
may  direct  the  sides  of  his  satire.  By  this  indis- 
criminate mode  of  fighting,  it  must  be  readily  peri 
ceived  that  a  great  many  innocent  authors  would 
run  the  hazard  of  receiving  a  shot: — yet,  either  io 
the  preface,  or  in  the  marginal  notes,  or  in  the  ap. 
pendix,  or  somewhere  else  in  his  lordship's  produc- 
tions, we  are  sure  of  having  seen  it  stated  that,  he 
has  not  assaulted  a  single  individual  but  by  way  oi 
returning  the  compliment  of  previous  abuse; — and 
surely  if  all  the  delinquents,  with  and  without  names> 
who  are  celebrated  in  this  satire,  have  heretofore; 
committed  overt  acts  of  hostility  against  lord  By- 
ron, it  is  impossible  to  refuse  him  the  motive  of 

*  See  their  review  of  the  Giaour, 
t "  Til  publish— right  or  wrong." 


XiX 


andant  provocation  to  his  attack.    It  will  not  be 
easy,  however,  to  reconcile  his  late  change  of 
meanor  with  any  ostensible  cause  of  sufficient  in- 
cement.     He  has  certainly  taken  every  pains  to 
ppress  the  satire  in  question;  going  so  far  in  one 
stance  as  to  prevent  the  edition  of  a  whole  im- 
•ession,  which  was  already  printed;— and  he  is  not 
dy  on  terms  of  good  fellowship  with  his  former 
•itics,  but  has  actually  become  a  visitant  at  Hol- 
nd  house— the  known  place  of  rendezvous  to  the 
dinburgh  Reviewers.     Moore  and  lord  Holland 
ere  both  abused  m  his  satire;  and  have  both  re- 
vived the  homage  of  a  dedication  to  some  of  his 
absequent  poems.*  «  Qu*  haec  spectant?"  Either 
is  lordship  has  received  some   honourable  amend 
arough  the  medium  of  epistolary  communication, 
r  personal  conference;  or  the  favourable  criticisms 
f  his  subsequent  productions  are  considered  as  a 
ufficient  retribution;  or,— in  short,  he  has  become 
econciled  to  his  enemies;  and,  for  our  own  parts, 
ye  care  very  little  how  the  reconciliation  was  ef- 
fectuated. 

We  are  now  to  estimate  the  merits  of  the  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers— considered  merely 
is  a  literary  performance.     And  here  we  cannot 

*  The  order  was  reversed  in  respeet  to  the  earl  of  Carlisle* 
a>  guardian  and  relative:  he  first  received  a  dedication  ami 
foen  a  lampoon.    See  line  907,  &c. 


help  repeating  an  observation  made  by  Dr.  Jol! 

son  on  a  similar  occasion,—"  that  personal  resei 

merit,  though  no  laudable  motive  to  satire,  can  a 

great  weight  to  general  principles."     There  is  « 

tainly  nothing  in  the  Hours  of  Idleness  which  wot 

lead  us  to  believe  the  noble  author  capable  of  pi 

ducing  such  a  satire:  nor  is  there  any  part  of  1! 

subsequent  works  conceived  with  any  thing  like  tf 

spirit  and  vigour  that  is  here  displayed.     To  tb 

remark  we  make  an  exception  in  favour  of  one  c1 

two  of  his  late  productions — the  Sketch  from  Ptf 

vate/Life,and  the  Curse  of  Minerva— both  of  whicl 

however,  serve  to  corroborate  our  position,  that  1 

personal  resentment  must  be  attributed  a  great  de? 

of  the  excellence  belonging  to  these  poems;  and  thai 

they  cannot,  therefore,  be  exhibited  as  exactly  fai 

specimens  of  the  author's  original  genius  for  poetr^ 

Had   Pope  written  nothing  but  The  Dunciad,  o< 

Byron  nothing  but  the  English  Bards  and*>Scotcl 

Reviewers,  perhaps  neither  would  have  descended 

to  posterity   as  very  eminent  poets.     Yet  in  thif 

opinion  we  know  ourselves  to  be  venturing  on  con' 

troversia!  ground;  and  we  frankly  confess,  we  shouh? 

be  almost  willing  to  risk  a  name  for  immortality 

upon  a  production  equal  in  merit  to  either  of  these 

celebrated  satires.  i 

Pope  and  Gilford  were  both  much  versed  in  the1 

composition  or  in  the  translation  of  poetry,  before* 


XXI 

f  produced  The  Dunciad  and  Baviad:  yet  here 
poem  equal  in  almost  every  respect  to  either  of 
ie  satires — written,  nevertheless,  hy  a  person 
»se  age  was  only  just  arrived  at  manhood,  and 
>  had  apparently  but  very  little  experience  in 
I  kind  of  verse  in  which  he  has  chosen  for  the 
duction,  or  indeed  in  verse  of  any  description 
itsoever.  It  seldom  rises  to  the  refinement  of 
»e,  and  never  falls  to  the  coarseness  of  Gilford; 
ile  the  metre  is  not  so  formal  as  that  of  the  for- 
r,  nor  so  dissolute  as  that  of  the  latter:  preserv- 

in  this  particular  a  medium  between  the  two, 
.eh,  among  many,  will  give  it  the  preference  to 
h.  There  is  not  an  affected  antithesis,  or  a  stiff 
i  in  the  whole  poem:  his  pen  seems  to  be  a  good 
iductor  of  his  thoughts;  and  every  thing  which 
;g  in  his  mind,  flows  out  immediately  upon  the 
per,  and  seems  to  fall  naturally  into  rhyme.  His 
riness  is  opened  without  etiquette  in  the  very 
*  line:  he  stops  just  long  enough  to  make  a  short 
I  vigorous  apostrophe  to  his  quill;  and  then  pro- 
jds  with  an  independent  and  manly  demarchf, 
e  a  literary  Thrasybulus,  to  drive  the  thirty  ty- 
lts  from  the  throne  of  Taste. 

About  simultaneously  with  the  publication  of 
s  satire,  lord  Byron  became  of  age,  and  accord- 
jly  took  his  seat  in  the  house  of  peers.  His  con- 
et  soon  showed,  however;  that  this  step  was  not 


xxii 

'taken  with  a  view  to  exereise  the  privilege  of  bei 
hereditary  counsellor  to  the  crown,— inasmuch 
in  1809  he  left  his  place  in  parliament,  and  trav 
led  two  years  in  the  south  and  east  of  Europe;  1 
marking  the  countries  through  which  he  pass 
with  the  eye  of  a  poet, — though,  from  evidenc 
both  internal  and  external,  of  the  poems  to  w hi- 
nts observations  have  given  rise,  we  are  inclined ' 
think  that  he  was  not  in  a  very  appropriate  mo* 
to  enjoy  the  beauties  which  he  so  vigorously  d 
scribes.  How  far  conjecture  should  be  indulged  < 
such  subjects,  we  are  not  exactly  qualified  to  dete1 
mine;  but  if  the  various  little  effusions  of  persona1 
ty,  which  we  find  interspersed  among  the  more  v 
luminous  productions  of  his  muse,  are  not  to  be  co* 
sidered  as  altogether  fictitious,  we  are  greatly  m? 
taken  if  a  disappointment  in  the  expected  recipr1 
cation  of  a  tender  passion  was  not  the  chief  indue 
ment  to  his  resolution  of  travelling.  It  is  certain  th' 
in  the  fore  part  of  the  Hours  of  Idleness,  he  is  ve^ 

vehemently  attached  to and  that  in  some  subs' 

quentodesoflhe  same  volume  he  quite  as  vehement1 
repents  thai  attachment;  while  at  the  same  time  I 
pathetically  bewails  his  unhappy  lot,  and  declar1 
that  the  unfaithfulness  of  his  mistress  had  chang< 
the  unity  of  his  worship  into  a  downright  pohth 
-isticai  adoration  of  the  female  sex. 


* »  H 

XXU1 


*  Ah!  since  thy  angel  form  is  gone, 

"  My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any; 

"  But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone, 

•«  Attempts,  alas!  to  find  in  many.-p.  126,  vol.  i. 

diilde  Harold,  too,  can  seldom  make  a  reflection 
thout  turning  it  at  last  into  strains  very  similar  to 
ese;  but  all  personalities  in  this  melancholy  tourist 
ve  been  formally  disavowed;  and,  as  we  feel  our- 
lves  to  be  meddling  in  affairs  with  which  we  have 
ry  little  to  do,  we  will  hasten  to  what  more  im- 
ediately  concerns  us.  Lord  Byron  travelled  in  com- 
my  with  Mr.  Hobhouse;  who,  together  with  him- 
lf  have  given  us  almost  the  only  information  respect- 
g  a  country,  which,  although  "  in  sight  of  Italy," 
as  (when  Gibbon  wrote)  "  less  known  than  the 
iterior  of  our  own  America."  We  have  little  doubt 
urselves,  that  his  lordship's  adventures  in  Alba- 
ia,  were  prompted  by  the  romantic  spirit  which, 
;  we  may  judge  from  his  writings,  forms  a  veryes- 
ential  ingredient  in  the  composition  of  his  charae- 

er. a  spirit  that  must  have  found  itself  at  home 

imong  the  dangers  from  which  he  made  such  hair- 
n-eadth  'scapes,  and  which  he  has  so  faithfully  de- 
leted both  in  prose  and  rhyme. 

"  An  Athenian  blockhead  (said  Johnson,  in  one 
>f  his  soliloquies)  is  the  worst  of  all  blockheads;" 
mi  observation  with  which  lord  Byron  seems  to 
iiave  been  very  deeply  impressed,  and  which  he 


xxiv 

has  very  facetiously  illustrated  in  exposing  the  eon' 
temptable  squabbles   of  the    antiquarians  for  thc 
ruins  of  dilapidated  Athens.  We  are  of  opinion,  how* 
ever,  that  his  lordship  has  rushed  into  the  opposit 
extreme  of  indifference  while  attempting  to  escap 
from  the  eager  curiosity  which  characterised  thi1 
rest  of  his  countrymen;  or  rather,  perhaps,  tha1 
his  veneration  for  the  ancient  city  of  Minerva  ha: 
led  him  to  vituperate  the  very  measures  which  an* 
calculated  to  preserve  its  relics.  His  vindictive  anil 
mosity  against  lord  Elgin,   can  hardly  be  founded 
in  his  affection   for   fallen   Athens;    and,  indeed. 
we  can  think  of  nothing  but  personal  antipathy  that 
could  have  induced  him  to  commence  so  virulent1 
an  attack  upon  the  noble  antiquarian  while  he  was 
in  Greece,  and  to  continue  it  with  such  augmented 
bitterness  after  he  had  returned  to  England.     Of 
almost  all  the  splendid  cities  which  adorned  the  an- 
cient  world,  not  only  are  no  monuments  now  re- 
maining, but  the  spots  on  which  they  stood  have 
been   utterly   obliterated;  and  when   lord    Byron 
quotes  the  scriptural  prophecy  respecting  the  utter 
disappearance  of  Babylon  (p.  188)  he  might  surely 
have  spared  some  of  his  satire  against  those  who 
were  endeavouring  to  save  a  fragment  or  two  of' 
Athens  from  the  general  wreck  of  ancient  magnifi- 
cence.    It  is,  by  his  own   account,  in   danger  of 
speedy  demolition  from  the  hands  of  Turks  and  of 


XXV 

le;  and  we  see  no  good  reason  why  Britons  should 
t  wish  to  horde  a  few  relics  of  a  city  from  which 
jy  derived  their  learning  and  their  civilization. 

But,  he  this  as  it  may,  it  is  yet  certain  that 
d  Byron  has  written  some  very  vigorous  stan- 
I  not  only  upon  the  antiquarian  direption  of  his 
tntrymen,  but  upon  almost  every  thing  else 
ich  he  saw  in  the  course  of  his  travelling.  There 
10  descriptive  poem  of  modern  times  which  can 
ad  in  competition  with  Childe  Harold's  Pil- 
mage.  The  poet  employs  few  circumstances; 
I  he  always  selects  such-  as  are  calculated  to  strike 
i  most  forcibly,  and  then  rapidly  combines  them 
i  manner  that  places  the  whole  picture  strongly 
I  vividly  before  our  eyes.     The  stanza  of  Spen- 

is  dignified  and  harmonious;  but  it  has,  at  the 
le  time,  quite  too  much  of  an  uniformity;  and 
are  particularly  apt  to  sicken  at  the  monotonous 
urrence  of  **  the  full  resounding  line."  There 
bis  other  objection  to  the  measure— that  it  sub- 
is  the  writer  to  the  necessity  of  causing  every 
ught  to  occupy  just  so  much  room;  and  accord- 
y  he  is  obliged  to  condense  one  idea  too  greatly 

dilate  another  too  far — to  give  us  very  little  in* 

nation  on  some  subjects,  and  to  extend  the  ex- 

lation  of  others  beyond  what  is  anywise  need. 

We  may  as  well  remark  here,  likewise,  that 

re  is  often  a  grossness  and  vulgarity  in  some  of 

B 


XXVI 

his  descriptions  which,  detract  very  much  from  t 
general  dignity  of  the  poem; — such  as  in  the  1 
lowing  lines: 

And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  frete 

Her  lips,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leave  their  nest: 

And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air* 

and  a  great  many  others  which  we  have  not  sps 
to  transcribe. 

There  is  another  obvious  general  remark  whi 

we  ought  not  to  omit: — the  poem  contains  too  gr< 

a  portion  of  scenery,  unenlivened  and  unreliev 

by  the  feelings  or  adventures  of  human  beings. 

resembles  more  than  any  thing  else  a   series 

beautiful  landscapes  which  the  poet  raises  up,  c 

after  another,  and  descants  upon,  like  a  mod* 

lecturer  on  botany.     This  was  perhaps  the  ur 

voidable  result  of  the  author's  circumstances;  wl 

as  he  himself  tells  us,  composed  the  greater  p= 

of  the  work  as  he  went  along,  and  who  could  n 

of  course,  perceive  that  the  descriptions  which 

him  were  relished  in  the  full  extent  of  their  beau 

by  being  intermittent  and  detached,  would  sc 

be  apt  to  cloy  his  readers,  when  confined  and 

gested  into  a  single  volume.     He  has,  indeed, 

tempted  to  counteract  this  effect  by  mingling  1 

acts  and  sufferings  of  what  was  meant  for  a  hum 

being  with  the  scenes  which  he  describes;  but  f 

adventures  and  remarks  of  this  personage  are  on 


xxvn 

o  rare  to  answer  the  purpose  of  their  introduce 
3n;  and  are,  moreover,  of  a  character  that  is  lit— 
e  calculated  to  relieve  one  from  disagreeable  poe- 
y;  for  he  goes  grumbling  along  through  the  most 
teresting  countries,—"  seeing  undelighted  all  de- 
>ht,"  and  making  just  such  reflections  as  a  certain 
iher  tourist  did  while  passing  through  a  paradise 
i  earth.  He  is  a  sated  sensualist:  every  species  of 
easure  had  been  to  work  in  laying  waste  the 
jod  qualities  of  his  mind;  and  nothing  but  remorse 
as  now  remaining  to  haunt  the  ruins  of  mental 
isolation.  All  the  regions  of  delight  which  his 
sra  country  displayed  had  been  already  overrun; 
id  there  was  now  no  recourse  but  either  to  sit 
awn,  like  Alexander,  and  weep,  because  no  other 
orlds  of  pleasure  were  to  be  conquered — or  to 
>ek  that  variety  abroad  which  was  now  no  longer 
>  be  found  at  home.  We  may  take  this  occasion  to 
?mark,  that,  besides  the  noble  author's  disavowal 
F  any  identity  between  himself  and  his  hero,  there 
no  more  necessity  that  Childe  Harold  in  the  Pil- 
nmage  should  be  concluded  to  personate  lord  By- 
)n,  than  that  the  Devil  in  Paradise  Lost  should  be 
ipposed  to  represent  Milton. 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  was  published  in 
J12:  in  the  following  year,  The  Giaour,  The  Bride 
'Abydos,  and  The  Corsair;  and  subsequently  to 
tat  period,  Lara,  The  Siege  of  Corinth,  and  Para- 


XXV111 

sina.  Of  these  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  ent< 
into  a  particular  and  detailed  examination — bol 
because  they  are  all  too  short  and  irregular  f< 
epic  criticism,  and  because  they  are  so  very  sim. 
lar  to  each  other,  that  our  observations  upon  or 
would  (mutatis  mutandis)  be  applicable  to  all  tt 
rest.  The  noble  author  has  on  one  occasion  di 
played  his  taste  for  fragments:  and  as  every  thin 
else  is  now-a-days  published  monthly  or  quarterl; 
we  almost  wonder  that  he  did  not  think  of  prt 
serving  the  same  names  through  all  his  successh 
poems,  and  of  issuing  the  whole  as  one  epic,  in  pt 
riodical  numbers. 

Lord  Byron  declared  that  the  two  cautos  of  Child 
Harold's  Pilgrimage  were  merely  experimental 
and  that  a  favourable  reception  of  these  would  pre, 
voke  the  remainder  of  the  contemplated  work:- 
but  this  condition  was  long  ago  fulfilled;  and  yc 
we  have  heard  no  more  from  his  lordship  on  th1 
subject  of  the  promised  continuation!  We  are  in, 
clined  to  think,  that  the  noble  author  became  full 
aware  of  the  heaviness  and  monotony  of  such 
work  as  the  Rotnaunt;  and  was  resolved  to  give 
greater  scope  for  personal  incident  by  dividing  th 
promised  6equel  into  a  number  of  individual  poem, 
each  comprising  a  short  dramatic  act  simplex  die, 
laxat  et  unum,  and  recounting  the  actions  of  th 
same  character  under  different  names  and  in  diffe 


XXIX 

t  circumstances.  The  choice  was  a  judicious 
e; — for  we  question  whether  the  fame  of  the 
■iter  would  have  been  greatly  augmented  by  a 
eond  exhibition  of  mere  picturesque  scenery. 
11  his  subsequent  poems  are  employed  in  detailing 
e  transactions  of  the  beings  who  inhabit  the  coun- 
es  through  which  his  lordship  travelled;  and  of 
urse  he  has  the  same  opportunity  of  describing 
e  physical  features  of  nature  as  she  appears  in 
ose  regions,  while  on  the  other  hand  we  are  not 
liged  to  avert  our  eye3  from  the  rich  pictures 
fore  us,  because  we  are  tired  of  viewing  scenery 
enlivened  by  the  business  and  sufferings  of  hu- 
an  life.  The  poet  has  thus  acquired  the  double 
vantage  of  describing  men  as  well  as  things,  at 
e  same  time  that  he  avoids  the  tedium  of  repre- 
ttting  the  one  without  the  other. 
The  great  and  leading  peculiarity  of  lord  Byron 
a  poet,  consists  \n  a  power  of  conveying  the  most 
:ense  and  excruciating  passion  in  the  strongest 
nceivable  modes  of  expression.  He  has  invented 
ery  circumstance  that  is  calculated  to  try  the 
tience  of  nature:— nor  will  he  suffer  her  to  es- 
pe  his  torments  till  he  is  sure  of  having  pushed 
x  to  the  last  extremity  of  suffering,  short  of  ac- 
al  expiration.  She  shrieks;  but  the  inexorable 
>et  still  holds  to  the  wreck;  and  seems  to  enjoy  a 
alicious  pleasure  in  beholding  her  writhe  under 


XXX 


the  infliction  of  his  torture.  Hence  there  is  selj 
dom  a  character  in  his  poems  which  is  not  all  thtj 
time  on  the  very  hoi*ders  of  hyperbole.  His  heroes 
undergo  calamities  which  seem  to  be  beyond  th« 
sufferance  of  ordinary  men;  and  yet  in  the  midst 
of  their  extravagance  we  6ee  enough  of  attribute!  i 
similar  to  our  own  to  make  us  recognise  them  ail 
the  offspring  of  human  nature. 

His  lordship  sees  every  thing  with  a  keen,  yej 
deliberate  eye;  and  almost  always  surprises  us  witl3 
the  exhibition  of  those  circumstances  which,  in  ou^ 
own  perusal,  we  just  noticed  enough  to  make  us  re 
member  that  we  should  have  noticed  them  more 
It  is  this  quality,  after  all,  which  constitutes  th« 
true  indication  of  genius.  The  reason  why  we  rea«' 
the  descriptions  of  ordinary  men  without  mucl 
emotion,  is,  that  they  seldom  see  any  mere  of  ai 
object  than  our  own  heedless  eyes;  and  we  6001 
begin  to  nod  over  a  work  which  is  calculated  ti' 
keep  no  faculty  awake  except  an  inert  and  passirr 
memory.  Far  different  is  the  case  in  perusing  tin1 
works  of  the  true  genius.  By  seizing  on  those  in 
cidents  which  are  all  but  invisible  to  eommon  op 
tics,  they  sustain  a  continual  call  for  the  active  ef 
forts  of  our  recollection;  and  while  we  reprov< 
our  own  apathy  in  disregarding  what  we  now  per 
ceive  can  be  turned  to  so  good  account,  we  ar 
paying  a  compliment  to  the  superiority  of  the  wrj 


XXXI 

r,  who  could  thus  remark  the  circumstances  which 
/ourselves  had  overlooked.     Thus  when  Dryden 
Us  us,  in  describing  the  approach  of  a  fleet- 
That  every  ship  in  swift  proportion  grows: 

e  event  is  placed  most  vividly  before  our  eyes; 
id  yet  we  have  but  a  very  faint  and  indefinite  re- 
lembrance  of  ever  having  remarked  the  circum- 
ance  contained  in  the  three  last  inimitable  words. 
o  again  in  Lord  Byron's  description  of  a  boat 
iriking  on  the  beach, 

Till  grates  her  keel  upon  the  yellow  sand: 

be  grating  of  the  keel  is  admirably  calculated  to 
epresent  the  operation: — but  it  is  a  sound  which 
riginally  just  struck  the  timpanum  of  our  dull  ears, 
ebounded,  and  was  never  thought  of  more. 

From  these  general  observations  upon  his  lord- 
hip's  poetry  we  must  descend  to  the  more  particu- 
ar  consideration  of  his  poems.  Instead  of  pub- 
ishing  a  multitude  of  short  and  imperfect  produc- 
tions,— it  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  noble  poet  did 
lot  abstain  from  the  press  till  he  had  completed  a 
;ood  long  old-fashioned  epic.  He  has  been  ex- 
hausting and  dispersing  his  strength  upon  a  thou- 
sand little  works,  such  as  Hebrew  Melodies,  odes 
to  this  and  that  person,  upon  this  and  that  event,—- 
which  all  contain,  to  be  sure  the  unequivocal  evi- 


XXXII 

denees  of  a  brilliant  genius;  but  it  is  a  brilliant  g 
nius  employed  in  little  things,  and  we  are  compe 
led  to  think  what  Seneca  would  have  been  if  I 
had  wasted  his  whole  life  in  picking  up  pebble 
Occasionally,  we  confess,  his  lordship  has  given  ji 
a  poem  of  tolerable  length:— but  it  is  all  imperfec, 
he  is  roused  for  a  moment;  makes  a  vigorous,  bi. 
transient  effort;  and  then  sinks  into  his  original  ii, 
activity,  without  half  completing  his  work.  Henc 
his  predilection  for  short  stories,  or  for  fragment 
of  long  ones;  in  which  he  generally  carries  so  fa 
the  principle  of  hurrying  us  into  the  midst  of  affair 
(vapit  in  mediae  res,)  as  not  only  to  suppose  w, 
are  acquainted  with  the  narrative  up  to  the  conci 
xnencement  of  the  poem,  but  to  fail  of  developin, 
the  unknown  circumstances  in  some  subsequen 
part  of  the  work.  His  characters  strut  their  hou 
upon  the  stage;  and  then  suddenly  disappear,  leaV 
ing  us  in  total  ignorance  as  to  motive  and  mannei 
either  of  their  exits  or  their  entrances: — and  a: 
we  know  about  them  is,  that  during  the  brief  perio< 
of  their  exhibition,  they  have  been  instrumental  L, 
some  of  the  most  villanous  as  well  as  in  some  of  th 
most  virtuous  transactions  of  which  man  is  capable 
and  that  they  appear  to  be  a  rare  mixture  of  th* 
noblest  and  the  meanest  attributes  of  human  na 
ture. 


XXXfll 

It  is  owing  we  apprehend,  to  the  frequent  repe- 
ition  of  short-lived  efforts,  more  than  to  the  mis- 
inthropie  and  repulsive  character  of  his  poetry, — 
hat  lord  Byron  is  not  so  popular  a  writer  as  his 
•ival,  Walter  Scott.  "  I  think,  (says  Junius,  in  a 
private  letter  to  'Wilkes)  I  should  not  make  my- 
self cheap  hy  walking  in  the  streets  so  much  as 
jrou  do."  This  pithy  hut  voluminous  sentence  dis- 
plays at  once  the  abasing  effect  of  too  frequent  ap- 
pearance in  public;  and  to  those  who  know  how 
Bonstantly  lord  Byron  has  been  running  to  the  press 
arith  some  short  poetical  trifle  or  another,  we  need 
aot  further  explain  the  causes  which  have  made 
bim  a  writer  of  comparative  unpopularity.  When 
Mr.  Scott  has  published  a  poem,  we  generally  see 
kirn  no  more  for  about  two  years:  before  the  ex- 
piration of  that  time,  we  begin  to  feel  how  neces- 
sary a  personage  he  is;  and  when  he  announces 
another  production,  we  cannot  be  easy  till  we  have 
got  a  copy.  A  new  poem  from  the  pen  of  lord 
Byron  produces  not  half  this  anxiety.  We  know 
from  experience  that  it  must  be  a  short  story  told 
in  a  short  way;  the  possession  of  which  is  not 
worth  much  solicitude,  especially  as  we  generally 
expect  a  mere  continuation  of  the  same  old  thing. 
Mr.  Scott  seldom  prints  till  he  can  give  us  a  pretty 
voluminous  poem;— and  the  very  magnitude  of  his 
b  2 


XXXIV 

productions  ensures  their  circulation  and  perms 
nency. 

In  the  composition  as  well  as  in  the  publication 
of  his  poems  the  noble  author  has  voluntarily  sub- 
jected himself  to  disadvantage  in  the  race  of  popu- 
larity. It  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  the  same 
writer  will  be  an  adept  in  all  the  different  kinds  of 
versification;  and  we  are  therefore  obliged  to  think, 
that,  while  lord  Byron  has  endeavoured  to  secure 
a  more  extensive  circulation  of  his  works  by  com- 
posing them  in  every  sort  of  metre,  he  has  adopted 
the  very  scheme  which  is  calculated  to  impair  both. 
*heir  present  and  their  future  popularity.  He  be- 
gan this  miscellaneous  versification  in  the  Hours  of 
Idleness;  and  has  continued  it,  more  or  less,  through 
all  his  succeeding  publications.  There  can  be  very 
little  dispute,  however,  about  that  in  which  he  suc- 
ceeds best: — the  heroic  verse  seems,  far  more 
than  any  other,  to  comport  with  the  elevated  char- 
acter of  his  thoughts;  and  whenever  he  yields  to 
the  prevailing  taste  for  octosyllabic  poetry,  he  forces 
Iiis  readers  to  make  some  unfavourable  compari- 
sons;— ]ie  appears  to  be  confined  in  too  narrow  a 
channel;  and  is  obliged  now  and  then  to  burst  out 
into  hexameters  and  alexandrines.  We  have  no 
hesitation  in  declaring  that  in  our  opinion  lord 
Byron  has  more  native  poetical  genius  than  Mr. 
Scott;  and  that  he  hns  very  imprudently  attempt- 


XXXV 

ed  to  rival  that  master  in  a  department  of  popular 
composition  which  he  alone  seems  capable  of  occu- 
pying,—and  which  he  had  already  occupied,  when 
the  noble  author  first  made  his  appearance.     In- 
stead, therefore,  of  contending  with  an   antagonist 
who  had  as  much  to  gain  as  himself,  he  was  oblig- 
ed  to  combat   one   who  joined  to   nearly    equa 
original  abilities,  all  the  stubborn  auxiliaries  of  long- 
established    possession.      Hence    the    octosyllabic 
poems  of  his  lordship  sound  almost  uniformly  harsh: 
not  because  they  are  so  abstractedly,— but  because 
we  must,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  compare  them  with 
the  productions  to  which  they  challenge  a  rival- 
ship.     In  heroic  versification  he  stands  alone;  and 
had  he  bent  the  whole  current  of  his  thoughts  into 
that  kind  of  metre,  he  might  have  been  one  of  the 
greatest  English  poets,  either  ancient  or  modern. 
In  spite  of  all  his  unsteady  and  irregular  efforts,  he 
is  decidedly  without  an  equal  among  the  heroic 
poets  of  our  own  times;  and  perhaps  there  are  few 
even   of  his  predecessors  who  are  far  superior  to 
himself  in  what  he  calls  '  the  good  old  and  now-ne- 
glected* versification  of  ten  syllables. 

We  come  now  to  touch  upon  the  most  painful 
part  of  his  lordship's  life.  In  January  1815,  he 
married  Miss  Anne-Isabella  Milbanke,  the  only 
child  of  sir  Ralph  Milbanke  (now  lord  Noel.) 
One  daughter  is  the   pledge  of  a  union  which*  at 


XXXVI 

its  commencement  seemed  to  promise  a  life  of  con- 
nubial felicity, — but   which,  by  some  unfortunate 
domestic  indiscretion  on  one  side  or  the  other,  has  J 
been  very  violently,— and  therefore  we  hope,  very  | 
transiently,  torn  asunder.     This  event  has  produc- 
ed great  agitation  among  the  fashionable  circles  of: 
Great  Britain;  and  we  have  -patiently  followed  all 
the  most  respectable  journalists  in  their  attempts, 
to  ascertain  the  side  on  which  the  blame  may  lie;  ! 
but  have  seen  little  else  than  mutual  recrimination; 
a  great  deal  of  bad  logic,  with  little  admixture  of  t 
fact,— and  quite  too  much  intermeddling  in  an  af- 
fair  from  which  common  decency  should  have  led  I 
the  combatants  to  abstain.     We  shall  only  add,  for  ' 
the  consolation  of  those  who  wish  well  to  lord  By-  > 
ron  as  well  in  the  capacity  of  a  husband  as  in  that  of 
a  poet,  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  an  intimate  friend  of 
his  lordship's,  has    repeatedly  stated  that,   from 
facts   within  his  own  personal  knowledge,  a  recon- 
ciliation of  the  parties  may  be  expected  very  soon 
to  take  place.    It  is  a  pretty  general  fact,  that  such 
sudden  ruptures  of  domestic  peace  are  succeeded 
by  quite  as  sudden  reparations  and  reunions: — 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay, 

But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not, 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away.    Fare  thee  xcelU 

Since  we  have  quoted  this  celebrated  little  effusion 
we    may  as   well  add   that,  for  the   expression  of 


xxxvn 

»en  heart-aching  passion,  it  has  not  heen  equalled 
r  any  similar  production  of  modern  times;  while 
,e  second  and  third  stanzas  may  challenge  a  com- 
arison  with  any  other  in  the  whole  compass  of 
nglish  poetry.  Taken  as  a  whole,  it  is  calculated 
,  stick  where  it  strikes;  and  lady  Byron  will  find 
rankling  in  her  bosom,  if  ever  she  feels  disposed 
>  regret  the  separation.  *  C'est  une  fieche  qui 
ercera  son  cccur  et  qu'elle  portera  avec  lui.' 

We  ought,  perhaps,  to  state  that,  whatever 
night  have  been  the  real  cause  of  the  separation 
n  question,  a  report  has  been  circulated  in  Eng- 
and  by  his  lordship's  friends  that  it  was  the  result 
»f  a  formal  conspiracy  against  his  domestic  peace; 
in  assertion  which  has  in  like  manner  been  con- 
xadicted  on  the  other  side  of  the  dispute.  All  the 
uformdytion  now  public  with  regard  to  the  affair,— 
t  is  very  scanty  to  be  sure— may  be  gathered  from 
;he  following  correspondence  which  passed  be- 
tween lord  Noel  and  James  Perry,  the  editor  of  the 
Chronicle: — 

«  We  have  authority  from  sir  Ralph  Milbanke 
for  saying,  that  he  knows  of  no  conspiracy  against 
the  domestic  peace  of  lord  Byron.  We  cheerfully 
yield  to  the  honourable  baronet's  desire  to  insert 
this  declaration,  of  the  truth  of  which  no  man,  who 
is  acquainted  with  him,  can  doubt.  The  editor  of 
a  Sunday  Journal  brought  the  false  accusations 
against  the  noble  lord;  and  his  efforts  have  been 
followed  by  more  than  one  of  the  daily  writers. 


XXXV111 

We  felt  it  our  duty  to  vindicate  the  ill-treated  no 
Meman  from  the  aspersions  so  wantonly  throwi, 
out  against  him.  Sir  Ralph  assures  us,  that  thes.< 
insinuations  have  been  published,  not  only  withoui 
his  knowledge,  but  also  much  to  his  disquiet  ant 
condemnation.  We  know  them  to  be  false,  and 
repeat  that  if  these  continued  slanders  shall  mak« 
the  publication  of  all  the  circumstances  of  the  un- 
happy dispute  necessary,  every  impartial  reader 
will  agree  with  us,  that  nothing  but  the  most  gross 
representation  and  malignant  influence  on  a  deli- 
cate mind,  could  have  operated  the  separation  that 
has  taken  place."— Chronicle,  Thursday. 

In  the  Chronicle  of  Saturday  the  following  let- 
ters appeared; 

On  Thursday  evening  we  received  the  following 
letter  from  sir  Ralph  Noel:— 

"  Mivart's  hotel,  Lower  Brook-street. 
-April  18, 1816. 
Sir— I  observe  with  the  greatest  dissatisfac- 
tion the  manner  in  which  you  have  inserted,  in  the 
Morning  Chronicle  of  to-day,  the  unqualified  con- 
tradiction f  gave  you  yesterday  of  the  paragraph  in 
your  former  paper,  which  stated  the  existence  of  a 
conspiracy  against  lord  Byron's  domestic  peace.  I 
did  not  say  that  I  knew  of  no  conspiracy  against 
lord  Byron's  domestic  peace,  but  I  told  vou  in  the 
most  decided  manner,  that  I  knew  no  conspiracy 
of  the  kind  had  ever  existed;  that  the  report  was 
utterly  false;  and  I  gave  you  my  word  of  honour, 
that  the  step  taken  by  lady  Byron,  was  the  result 
of  her  own  unbiassed  judgment,  and  that  her  pa- 
rents and  friends  interfered  only  when  called  upon 
by  her  to  afford  her  their  support.  In  the  neces- 
sity of  the  step,  indeed,  her  friends   f-.il!v  concur- 


XXXIX 

•d;  but.  in  the  suggestion  of  it  they  had  no  concern: 
iving  given  you  this  assurance  in  the  most  solemn 
anner,  I  called  upon  you  to  contradict  the  para- 
'aph  on  my  authority;  you  have  done  so,  but  in 
manner  utterly  unsatisfactory;  and  I  have  to  re- 
aest  that  you  will  insert  this  letter  in  your  paper 
f  to-morrow,  in  which  I  repeat,  that  no  conspi- 
»cy  whatever  ever  existed  against  lord  Byron  s 
omestic  peace. 

«« You  also,  in  another  part  of  the  conversation 
hich  ensued,  entirely  mistook  me  1  never  stat- 
il  that  the  publication  in  a  Sunday  Journal  was. 
mnch  to  my  disquiet  and  condemnation;'  but,  in 
eply  to  some  observations  of  yours,  it  was  assert- 
d  merely  as  a  fact,  that  no  paragraphs  hostile  to 
>rd  Byron  had  originated  with  lady  Byron  or  her 
mmediate  friends,  or  were  published  with  their 
;nowledge;  and  that  I  should  lament  very  much  the 
lecessity  of  making  this  subject  the  theme  of  fur- 
her  discussion  in  the  public  papers,  which  I  have 
tlways  disapproved  of  in  questions  that  concern  the 
elations  of  private  life.  Such  were  my  observa- 
ions.  In  the  present  instance,  I  conceive  these 
liseussions  have  sprung  from  the  publication  of 
ord  Byron's  verses,  as  I  do  not  remember  that 
he  subject  was  ever  canvassed  before — they  have 
jertainly  not  originated  with  lady  Byron 

I  am,  sir,  your  humble  servant, 

« ,  Perry,  Esq.  "  Ralph  Noel." 

"  P.  S.  My  friend,  colonel  Doyle,  who  was 
present  with  me,  concurs  in  his  recollection  of  the 
move  having  been  the  sentiments  which  I  expres- 
sed." 

To  this  letter  the  editor  returned  the  following 
answer:—- 


xl 

"  Thursday  evening,  1 1  o'cloci 
"Sib, 

"  On   coming  to   ray  office,  I  find  your  letter 
containing  an  animadversion  on  the  paragraph  ir 
serted  in  my  paper,  as  the  result  of  the  conversj 
tion  last  night,  and  I  should   have  no  hesitation  i 
publishing  it  according  to  your  desire,  if  I  were  nc 
morally  certain  that  it  would  lead  inevitably  to  th 
publication  of  the  whole  correspondence,  from  lad; 
Byron's  first  letter,  dated  from  Kirkby,  to  the  las 
document,  prepared  for  legal  proceedings,  if  ne 
cessary.     I  stop  it,  therefore,  for  one  day,  to  ena 
ble  you  to  reflect  on  the  propriety  of  pushing  th< 
matter  to  this  extremity;  and,  in  the  mean  time, 
beg  leave   to  say,  that  I  published  the  result  o 
the  long  conversation  that  passed  between  us,  anc 
not  the  detail,  from  motives  of  the  most  anxiou* 
concern  for  all   parties.     You  certainly  said  in  the 
first  instance,  that  '  no  conspiracy  had  ever  existed 
against  the  domestic  peace  of  lord  Byron,'  to  which 
you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  recollect  I  answered. 
1  that  you  could  speak  to  this  only  from  the  best  oi 
your  own  knowledge  and  belief,'  and  that  I  per- 
fectly acquitted  you  of  all   participation  in  it,   but 
that  I  remained  fully  convinced,  from  circumstan- 
oes   within   my  own  knowledge,  that  nothing  but 
gross  misrepresentation   and  malignant  influence 
could  have   prevailed  on  a  wife,  whose  duty  it  was 
to  cleave  to  her  husband,  and  particularly  such  a 
wife  as  lord  Byron  always  described  his  lady  to  be, 
to  take  the   step  which  she  did,  aud  to  remain  ap- 
parently implacable  to   all  the  overtures  of  recon- 
ciliation  that  have   since  been   made.     Both  you 
and  colonel   Doyle   acknowledged  that  you  could 
not  expect  me   to   give  up  the  conviction   of  my 
mind,  and  you  appeared  to  me  perfectly  to  acqui- 


xli 

see  in  the  way  that  I  put  it,  which  was,  that  I  had 
our  authority  to  declare  that  no  conspiracy,  to 
our  knowledge,  existed  against  the  noble  lord. 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  aggravate  the  unhappy  thf- 
jrenee  by  going  into  all  the  conversation  which 
aok  place,  nor  state  the  impression  which  was 
tiade  on  my  feelings  by  your  declaration,  that  lady 
J.'s  separation  from  her  husband  was  ■  the  result 
f  her  own  unbiassed  judgment,'  a  step  which  I 
aid,  from  respect  to  the  lady,  I  could  not  have 
upposed  possible;  my  own  ideas  of  the  conduct  of 
i  noble-minded  woman  being  so  contrary;  and 
uch  conduct  being  at  the  same  time  so  inconsist- 
:nt  with  the  expressions  used  by  herself  to  the  last 
noment  of  their  domestic  intercourse. 

"  if  I  had  gone  into  the  whole  detail,  I  must 
lave  stated  the  question  put  to  you:  why  no  reply 
was  given  to  the  application  made  to  your  family 
to  specify  the  charges  against  lord  B.  that  he 
might  have  an  opportunity  to  vindicate  himself 
from  the  calumnies  so  industriously  propagated 
igainst  him?— To  this  you  answered,  that  lady  By- 
ron acted  in  this  by  the  advice  of  Dr.  Lushington. 
What — a  wife  tears  herself  from  the  bosom  of  her 
husband,  and  acts  by  the  cold  caution  of  a  lawyer 
Father  than  by  the  dictates  of  her  own  heart! 

"  As  to  the  expression  of  the  disquiet  at  and 
eondemnation  of  the  infamous  aspersions  which 
provoked  me  to  vindicate  the  noble  lord,  I  certain- 
ly conceived  you  to  declare  that  they  not  only 
were  not  authorized  by  lady  Byron's  friends,  but 
that  you  regretted  and  condemned  them.  1  trust 
you  do  not  mean  to  withdraw  this  declaration,  or 
to  diminish  the  import  of  these  words. 

"  If  in  the  course  of  to-morrow  I  shall  receive 
your  instructions  to  print  the  letter,  you  may  de> 


xlii 

pend  on  the  publication  on  Saturday,  together  wit! 
my  own  recollection  of  all  that  passed  between  u:, 
yesterday,  and  which,  that  yon  may  be  satisfied  eel 
its  fairness,  I  shall  be  ready  to  submit  before  hanci 
to  your  perusal  My  anxiety  is  to  prevent  the" 
breach  from  being  widened,  and  to  avoid  the  eon ' 
sequences  to  which  the  publication  of  your  letter.1 
and  the  continuance  of  such  slanders  as  daily  ap- 
pear in  some  of  the  papers,  must  lead. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
With  perfect  respect  for  yourself. 

"  Sir,^-our  faithful  servant,         Ja.  Pehby 
«*  Sir  Ralph  Noel,  Bart  &c  &c.  &c. 

Strand,  April  18, 1816." 

"Mivarfs  Hotel,  April  19,  1816 
Sin— -I  cannot  withdraw  my  request,  that  yot 
will  insert  the  letter  of  explanation  which  I  yes- 
tei'day  sent  you.  You  must  take  the  responsibility 
upon  yourself  of  whatever  you  may  choose  to  pub- 
lish, and  1  must  decline  any  previous  communica- 
tion on  the  subject 

"  I  am,  sir,  your  humble  servant, 

Ralph  JfoiL.,: 

As  the  correspondence  of  lord  Noel  and  Mr. 
Perry  can  be  but  of  temporary  interest  at  the  best, 
and,  moreover,  contains  very  little  information  as 
to  the  causes  of  lord  Byron's  disagreement  with 
his  lady,  it  will  be  omitted  in  the  complete  edition 
of  his  works. 


xliii 

*%  As  the  aboTe  article  was  intended  for  the  full  edition  of 
rd  Byron's  works,  which  is  to  appear  in  a  week  or  two 
nee,  it  has  been  necessarily  drawn  up  for  the  present  pubh- 
tion  with  more  haste  than  is  consistent  with  any  thing  like 
eeant  composition.  It  shall  undergo  a  revision  before  its 
>xt  appearance;  and  will  also  be  enriched  with  some  addi- 
jnal  particulars  which  have  been  promsied  us  by  an  acquaint- 
ice  of  lord  Byron's. 


AREWELL  TO  ENGLAND. 

'•  While  now  I  take  my  last  adieu, 
"  Heave  thou  no  sigh,  nor  shed  a  tear, 

"  Lest  yet  my  tearful  eye  should  view, 
"  An  object  feat  deserves  my  eare.M 


FAREWELL  TO  ENGLAND! 


1. 

UH!  land  of  my  fathers,  and  mine! 

The  noblest,  the  best,  and  the  bravest — 
Heart-broken  and  lorn,  I  resign 

The  joys  and  the  hopes  which  thou  gavest? 

2. 
Dear  mother  of  freedom!  farewell! 

Even  freedom  is  irksome  to  me— 
Be  calm,  throbbing  heart,  nor  rebel — 

For  Reason  approves  the  decree. 

3. 

Bid  I  love? — Be  my  witness,  high  heaven! 

That  mark'd  all  my  frailties  and  fears  — 
I  ador'd-^but  the  magic  is  riven — 

Be  the  memory  expung'd  by  my  tear*! 


48 

4. 
The  moment  of  rapture  how  bright — 

How  dazzling — how  transient  its  glare — 
A  comet  in  splendor  and  flight— 

The  herald  of  darkness  and  care— 

5. 
Recollections  of  tenderness  gone, — 

Of  pleasure  no  more  to  return— 
A  wanderer — an  outcast  alone — 

Oh!  leave  me,  untortur'd,  to  mourn. 

6. 
Where — where  shall  my  heart  find  repose? 

A  refuge  from  memory  and  grief; 
The  gangrene,  wherever  it  goes, 

Disdains  a  fictitious  relief. 

7. 
Could  I  trace  out  that  fabulous  stream, 

Which  washes  remembrance  away — 
Again  might  the  eye  of  Hope  gleam 

The  dawn  of  a  happier  day. 

8. 
Hath  wine  an  oblivious  power? — 

Can  it  pluck  out  the  sting  from  the  brain? 
The  draught  may  beguile  for  an  hour— 

But  still  leaves  behind  it  the  pain. 


49 

9. 
©an  distanee  or  time  heal  the  heart . 

That  bleeds  from  its  innermost  pore? 
Or  intemperance  lessen  its  smart — 

Or  a  cerate  apply  to  its  sore? 

10. 
If  I  rush  to  the  ultimate  pole, 

The  form  I  adore  will  be  there— 
A  phantom  to  torture  my  soul — 

Aud  mock  at  my  bootless  despair. 

11. 

The  zephyr  of  eve,  as  it  flies, 

Will  whisper  her  voice  in  mine  ear— 
And,  moist  with  her  sorrows  and  sighs, 

Demand  for  Love's  altar  a  tear. 

12. 
And  still  in  the  dreams  of  the  day— 

And  still  in  the  visions  of  night- 
Will  Fancy  her  beauties  display — 

Disordering — deceiving — the  sight. 

13. 

Hence,  vain  fleeting  images,  hence! 

Grim  phantoms  that  'wilder  my  braio^r* 
Mere  frauds  upon  Reason  and  Sense — 

EBgender'd  by  Foil}  and  Pain! 


50 

14. 

Did  I  swear  on  the  altar  of  heaven 

My  fealty  to  her  I  adored? 
Did  she  give  back  the  vows  I  had  giv'n— 

And  plight  back  the  plight  of  her  lord? 

15. 
If  1  err'd  for  a  moment  from  love, 

The  error  I  flew  to  retrieve — 
Kiss'd  the  heart  I  had  wounded,  and  strove 

To  sooth,  ere  it  ventur'd  to  grieve. 

16. 
Did  I  bend,  who  had  ne'er  bent  before? 

Did  I  sue,  who  was  us'd  to  command? 
Love  forc'd  me  to  weep  and  implore — 

And  Pride  was  too  weak  to  withstand— 

17. 

Then  why  should  one  frailty,  like  mine, 
Repented,  and  wash'd  with  my  tears, 

Erase  those  impressions  divine, — 
The  faith  and  affection  of  years? 

18. 
Was  it  well,  between  anger  and  love, 

That  Pride  the  stern  umpire  should  be— 
And  that  heart  should  its  fliDtiness  prove 

On  none,  till  it  prov'd  it  on  me? 


51 

19. 

And,  ah!  was  it  well,  when  I  knelt, 
Thy  tenderness  so  to  conceal, 

That  witnessing  all  which  I  felt, 
Thy  sternness  forbad  thee  to  feel? 

20. 
Then,  when  the  dear  pledge  of  our  love 

Look'd  up  to  her  mother  and  smil'd— 
Say,  was  there  no  impulse  that  strove 

To  back  the  appeal  of  the  child? 

21. 

That  bosom,  so  callous  and  chill- 
So  treacherous  to  love  and  to  me— 

Ah!  felt  it  no  heart-rending  thrill, 
As  it  turn'd  from  the  innocent's  plea? 

22.    • 
That  ear  which  was  open  to  all 

Was  ruthlessly  clos'd  to  its  lord— 
Those  accents  which  fiends  would  enthral, 

Jiefus'd  a  sweet  peace-giving  word. 

23. 
And  think'st  thou,  dear  object — for  still 

To  my  bosom  thou  only  art  life, 
And,  spite  of  my  pride  and  my  will, 

I  bless  thee — I  woo  thee — my  wife— 


52 

24. 
Oh!  think'st  thou  that  absence  shall  bring 

The  balm  which  will  give  thee  relief— 
Or  time,  on  its  life-wasting  wing, 

An  antidote  yield  for  thy  grief? 

25. 
Thy  hopes  will  be  frail  as  the  dream 

Which  cheats  the  long  moments  of  night. 
But  melts  in  the  glare  of  the  beam 

Which  breaks  from  the  portal  of  light. 

26. 
For  when  on  thy  babe's  smiling  face, 

Thy  features  and  mine  intertwin'd, 
The  finger  of  Fancy  shall  trace— 

The  spell  shall  resistlessly  bind— 

27. 
The  dimple  that  dwells  on  her  cheek— 

The  glances  that  beam  from  her  eye— 
The  lisp,  as  she  struggles  to  speak — 

Shall  dash  every  smile  with  a  sigh. 

28. 
Tken  I,  though  whole  oceans  between 

1  hei-   (ilowy  barriers  may  rear— 
Shalt  triumph,  though  fa»-  a»0  unseen— 

Vnsonssious — uncall'd— shall  be  there- 


S3 

29. 
The  cruelty  sprang  not  from  thee, 

'Twas  foreign  and  foul  to  thy  heart — 
That  leveil'd  its  arrow  at  me, 

And  fix'd  the  incurable  smart. 

30. 
Ah  no!  'twas  another  than  thine, 

The  hand  which  assail'd  my  repose — 
It  struck — and  too  fatally  mine 

The  wound,  and  its  offspring  of  woes. 

SI. 
They  hated  us  both,  who  destroyed 

The  buds  and  the  promise  of  Spring— 
For  who,  to  replenish  the  void, 

New  ties — new  affections — can  bring? 

32. 
Alas!  to  the  heart  that  is  rent, 

What  nostrums  can  soundness  restore? 
Or  what,  to  the  bow  over-bent, 

The  spring  which  it  carried  before? 

33. 
The  rent  heart  will  fester  and  bleed, 

And  fade  like  the  leaf  in  the  blast— 
The  crack'd  yew  no  more  will  recede, 

Though  vig'rous  and  tough  to  the  last. 


54 

34. 
I  wander — it  matters  not  where — 

No  clime  can  restore  me  my  peace— 
Or  snatch  from  the  frown  of  Despair, 

A  cheering — a  fleeting  release! 

35. 
How  slowly  the  moments  will  move! 

How  tedious  the  footsteps  of  years! 
When  valley  and  mountain  and  grove 

Shall  ehange  but  the  scene  of  my  tears! 

36. 
The  classic  memorials  which  nod — 

The  spot  dear  to  Science  and  Lore — 
Sarcophagus — temple — and  sod — 

Excite  me  and  ravish  no  more! 

37. 
The  stork  on  the  perishing  wall, 

Is  better  and  happier  than  1 — 
Content  in  his  ivy  -built  hall, 

He  hangs  out  his  home  iu  the  sty. 

38. 
But  houseless  and  heartless,  I  rove, 

My  bosom  all  bar'd  to  the  wind— 
The  victim  of  pride,  and  of  love— 

I  seek — but,  ah!  where  can  I  fiad1 


55 

39. 

I  seek  what  no  tribes  can  bestow— 
I  ask  what  no  clime  can  impart— 

A  charm  which  can  neutralize  wo, 
And  dry  up  the  tears  of  the  heart. 

40. 
I  ask  it— I  seek  it— in  vain — 

From  Ind  to  the  northernmost  pole, 
Unheeded— unpitied— complain, 

And  pour  out  the  grief  of  my  soul, 

41. 
What  bosom  shall  heave  when  I  sigh? 

What  tears  shall  respond  when  I  weep? 
Te  my  waitings  what  wail  shall  reply? 

What  eye  mark  the  vigils  I  keep? 

42. 
Even  thou— as  thou  learnest  to  prate — 

Dear  babe — while  remotely  I  rove — 
Shalt  count  it  a  duty— to  hate 

Where  Nature  commands  thee  to  love'/ 

43. 
The  foul  tongue  of  Malice  shall  peal 

My  vices — my  faults — in  tbine  ear— 
And  teach  thee,  with  dsemon-like  zeal, 

A  father's  affection  to  fear. 


66 


44. 
And  oh!  if  in  some  distant  day, 

Thine  ear  may  be  struck  with  my  lyre, 
And  Nature's  true  index  may  say — 

It  may  be— it  must  be — my  sire!" — 


«  t< 


45. 
Perchance  to  thy  prejudiced  eye, 

Obnoxious  my  form  may  appear- 
Even  Nature  be  deaf  to  my  sigh — 

And  Duty  refuse  me  a  tear. 

46. 
Yet  sure  in  this  isle,  where  my  songs 

Have  echoed  from  mountain  and  dell, 
Some  tongue  the  sad  tale  of  my  wrongs 

With  grateful  emotion  may  tell. 

47. 
Some  youth,  who  had  valued  my  lay, 

And  warm'd  o'er  the  tale  as  it  ran, 
To  thee,  even,  may  venture  to  say — 

"  His  frailties  were  those  of  a  man!" 

48. 
They  were;— -they  were  human — but  swell'd 

By  Envy  and  Malice  and  ^corn — 
Each  feeling  of  nature  rebell'd, 

And  hated  the  mask  it  had  worn. 


57 


49. 
Though  human  the  fault— how  severe, 

How  harsh  the  stern  sentence  pronounc'd- 
Ev'n  Pride  dropp'd  a  niggardly  tear, 

My  love  as  it  grimly  denounc'd! 

50. 
'Tis  past! — the  great  struggle  is  o'er! 

The  war  of  my  bosom  subsides! 
And  Passion's  strong  current  no  more 

Impels  its  impetuous  tides. 

51. 

*Tis  past!  my  affections  give  way— - 
The  ties  of  ray  nature  are  broke— 

The  summons  of  Pride  I  obey. 

And  break  Love's  degenerate  yoke. 

5£ 
I  fly,  like  a  bird  of  the  air, 

In  search  of  a  home  and  a  rest; 
A  balm  for  the  sickness  of  Care— » 

A  bliss  for  a  bosom  unblest. 

53. 
And  swift  as  the  swallow  that  floats— 
And  bold  as  the  eagle  that  soars- 
Yet  dull  as  the  owlet,  whose  notes 
The  dark  fiend  of  midnight  deplores! 
c  2 


53 

54. 
WTiere  gleam  the  gay  splendors  of  east, 

The  dance  and  the  bountiful  board, 
Fll  bear  me  to  Luxury's  feast, 

To  exile  the  form  I  ador'd. 

55. 
In  full  brimming  goblets,  111  quaff 

The  sweets  of  the  Lethean  spring, 
And  join  in  the  Bacchanal's  laugh — 

And  trip  in  the  fairy-form'd  ring! 

5o\ 
Where  Pleasure  invites  will  I  roam, 

To  drown  the  dull  memory  of  Care— • 
An  exile  from  Hope  and  from  home — 

A  fugitive  ehas'd  by  Despair. — 

57. 
Farewell  to  thee,  land  of  the  brave! 

Farewell  to  thee,  land  of  my  birthJ 
When  tempests  around  thee  shall  rave, 

Still— still— may  they  homage  thy  worthf 

58. 
Wife — infant — and  country— and  friend — 

Ye  wizard  my  fancy  no  more— 
I  fly  from  your  solace,  and  wend 

To  "weep  «n  some  kindlier  shore. 


69 

5D. 
The  grim-visag'd  fiend  of  the  storm 

That  raves  in  this  agoniz'd  breast — 
Still  raises  his  pestilent  form — 

Titt  Death  calm  the  tumult  to  rest, 


Jest  a*  this  volume  was  going  to  press,  we  were  polkel] 
voured  by  a  friend  of  lord  Byron's  with  a  complete  copy  of 
Curse  of  Minerva,  containing  about  two  hundred  more  lir 
than  those  which  have  already  been  published— together  wi 
several  other  poems  whieh  have  never  before  appeared  in  pri 
The  last  stanza  of  "  A  Lady  Weeping"  (vol.  i  p.  206)  is 
ken  from  a  manuscript  copy  of  the  verses,  and  is  now  pi 
■  ished  for  the  first  time. 


THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 

Stow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  bis  race  be  run, 
Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sun; 
Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light; 
O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 
Gilds  the  green  wave  that  trembles  as  it  glows; 
On  old  iEgina's  rock  and  Idra's  isle, 
The  God  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile. 
O'er  his  own  regions  lingering  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast,  the  mountain-shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquered  Salamis! 
Their  azure  arches,  through  the  long  expanse, 
More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance, 
And  tenderest  tints  along  their  summits  driven 
Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  Heaven 


61 

darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
lind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sleep, 
such  an  eve,  his  palest  heam  he  cast 
jen,  Athens!  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last! 
w  watch'd  thy  hetter  sons  his  farewell  ray 
at  clos'd  their  murder'd  sage's  latest  day! 

I  yet not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill, 

I  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still; 
t  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
id  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes, 
oom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
je  land  where  Phcehus  never  frownM  before; 
I  ere  he  sunk  beneath  Cithjeron's  head, 
ie  cup  of  wo  was  quaff'd— the  spirit  fled; 
ae  soul  of  him  who  scorn'd  to  fear  or  fly, 
Tio  liv'd  and  died  as  none  can  live  or  die. 

But  lo!  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain 
he  Queen  of  Night  asserts  her  silent  reign;* 
o  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm, 
jdes  her  fair  face,  or  girds  her  glowing  form: 
Pith  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moonbeams  play— 
'here  the  white  cotumn  greets  her  grateful  ray, 
,nd  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  beset, 
[er  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret. 

*  The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own 
country.  The  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  m  summer  of 
less  duration. 


62 

The  groves  of  olive,  scatter'd  dark  and  wide, 
Where  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide, 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque; 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk,* 
And  sad  and  sombre  'mid  the  hohj  calm, 
Near  Theseus'  fame,  yon  solitary  palm; 
All  ting'd  with  varied  hues  arrest  the  eye, 
And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by 
Again  the  iEgean,  heard  no  more  afar, 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  expanse  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mixt  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle 
That  frown  where  gentler  ocean  deigns  to  smile 

As  thu9  within  the  walls  of  Pattas'  fane 
I  mark'd  the  beauties  of  the  land  and  main, 
Alone  and  friendless  on  the  magic  shore, 
Whose  arts  and  arms  but  live  in  poet's  lore; 
Oft  as  the  matchless  dome  I  turn'd  to  scan, 
Sacred  to  Gods,  but  not  secure  from  man, 
The  past  return'd,  the  present  seem'd  to  cease, 
And  Glory  knew  no  clime  beyond  her  Greece. 

*  The  kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summei^house— the  palm  is  wi 
out  the  present  walls  of  Alhens,  not  far  from  the  temple 
Theseus,  between  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  intervene* 
Cepbisus's  stream  i>  indeed  scanty,  and  Ilissus  has  no  ttret 
at  a!2. 


63 

tours  roll'd  along,  and  Dian's  orb  on  high 
1  gain'd  the  centre  of  her  softest  sky, 
1  yet  unwearied  still  my  footsteps  trod 
p  the  vain  shrine  of  many  a  vanish'd  god: 
chiefly  Pallas!  thine:  when  Hecate's  glare 
jck'd  by  the  columns,  fell  more  sadly  fair 
r  the  chili  marble,  where  the  startling  tread 
rills  the  lone  heart,  like  echoes  from  the  dead. 

uong  had  I  mused  and  treasured  every  trace 

e  wreck  of  Greece  recorded  of  her  race, 

hen  lo!  a  giant-form  before  me  strode, 

,d  Pallas  harl'd  me  in  her  own  abode. 

s_ 'twas  Minerva's  self— but  ah!  how  changed 

ice  o'er  the  Dardan  field  in  arms  she  ranged! 

>t  such  a3  erst  by  her  divine  command, 

»r  form  appear' d  from  Phidias'  plastic  hand, 

>ne  were  the  terrors  of  her  awful  brow,. 

er  idle  aegis  bore  no  Gorgon  now; 

er  helm  was  deep  indented,  and  hei*  lanee 

jem'd  weak  and  shaftless  e'eu  to  mortal  glance: 

he  olive  branch,  which  still  she  deign'd  to  clasp, 

iiruuk  from  her  hand  and  withered  in  her  grasp, 

nd  ah:  though  still  the  brightest  of  the  sky, 
elestial  tears  bedew'd  her  large  blue  eye; 
tound  her  rent  casque  her  owlet  circled  slow; 
md  mouxo'd  his  mistress  with  a  fehviek  of  wo, 


64 

*'  Mortal!"  ('twas  thus  she  spoke)  "  that  blus!, 
shame 
Proclaims  thee  Briton — once  a  noble  name- 
First  of  the  mighty,  foremost  of  the  free, 
Now  honour'd  less  by  all,  but  least  by  me; 
Chief  of  thy  foes  shall  Pallas  still  be  found: 
Seek'st  thou  the  cause?  oh,  Mortal!  look  around, 
Lo!  here,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, 
I  saw  successive  tyrannies  expire; 
'Scaped  from  the  ravage  of  the  Turk  and  Goth, 
Thy  country  sends  a  spoiler  worse  than  both. 
Survey  this  vacant  violated  fane, 
Recount  the  relics  torn  that  yet  remain;— 
These  Cecrops  placed — this  Pericles  adorn'd— 
That  Hadrian  rear'd  when  drooping  Science  mourn 
What  more  I  owe  let  gratitude  attest, 
Know,  Alaric  and  Elgin  did  the  rest- 
That  all  may  learn  from  whence  the  plunderer  can 
Th'  insulted  wall  sustains  his  hated  name.* 

*  It  is  related  by  a  late  oriental  traveller  that  when  tf 
wholesale  spoliator  visited  Athens,  he  caused  his  own  nam 
with  that  of  his  wife,  to  be  inscribed  on  a  pillar  of  one  of  til 
principal  temples:  this  inscription  was  executed  in  a  very  co: 
spicuous  maimer, and  deeply  engraved  in  the  marble,  at  a  vei 
considerable  elevation.  Notwithstanding  which  precaution 
some  person  (doubtless  inspired  by  the  patron-goddess)  hi 
been  at  the  pains  to  get  himself  raised  up  to  the  requisii 
height,  and  has  obliterated  the  name  of  the  laird,  but  left  thi 
of  the  lady  untouched.  The  traveller  in  question  accompanie 
this  story  by  a  remark,  that  it  must  have  cost  some  labour  ar 
contrivance  to  get  at  the  place,  and  could  only  have  been  e 
fected  by  much  zeal  and  determination. 


65 

Elgin's  fame  thus  grateful  P alias  pleads, 
>w,  his  name;  above,  behold  his  deeds, 
jver  hail'd  with  equal  honour  here, 

Gothic  monarch,  and  the  British  peer. 
is  gave  the  first  his  right,  the  last  had  none, 
basely  stole  what  less  barbarians  won: 
when  the  lion  quits  his  fell  repast, 
t  prowls  the  wolf,  the  filthy  jackal  last; 
h,  limbs,  and  blood,  the  former  make  their  own, 

last  base  brute  securely  gnaws  the  bone, 
still  the  Gods  are  just,  and  crimes  are  crost: 
here,  what  Elgin  won,  and  what  he  lost, 
ther  name  with  his  polices  my  shrine; 
old,  where  Dian's  beams  disdaiu  to  shine:— 
e  retribution  still  might  PiMtAs  claim, 
en  Ventts  haif-aveng'd  Minerva's  shame."* 

he  ceased  awhile,  and  thus  I  dared  reply, 
sooth  the  vengeance  kindling  in  her  eye:— 
ghter  of  Jove!  in  Britain's  injur'd  name, 
Kue  born  Briton  may  the  deed  disclaim. 
urn  not  on  England — England  owns  him  not:— 
bna?  go — the  plunderer  was  a  Scot.f 

,'  The  portrait  of  sir  Wm-  VAvenant  illustrates  this  line. 
I  The  plaster  wall  ois  the  west  side  of  the  temple  of  Miner- 
folios  bears  the  following  inscription,  cut  in  very  deep 
Meters:— 

.  "  Quad  rum  fecerunt  God 
Hocfecerunt  Scoti.'', — 

Uobhouse'*  Travels  m  Greece.  &c.  p.  345. 


66 

Ask'st  thou  the  difference?  from  fair  Phyle's  tow 
Survey  Bceotia: — Caledonia's  ours — 

And  well  I  know  within  that  murky  land 
Hath  Wisdom's  goddess  never  held  command; 
A  Darren  soil  where  nature's  germs  confin'd 
To  stern  sterility  can  stint  the  mind; 
Where  thistle  well  betrays  the  niggard  earth, 
Emblem  of  all  to  whom  the  land  gives  birth  j 
Each  genial  influence  nurtured  to  resist 
A  land  of  liars,  mountebanks  and  mist, 
Each  breeze  from  foggy  mount  and  marshy  plaii 
Dilutes  with  drivel  every  drizzly  brain, 
Till  burst  at  length,  eachwat'ry  head  o'erflows, 
Foul  as  their  soil  and  frigid  as  their  snows; 
Ten  thousand  schemes  of  pfetulance  and  pride 
Despatch  her  reckoning  children  far  and  wide: 
Some  east,  some  west,  some — every  where  but  n< 
In  quest  of  lawless  gain,  they  issue  forth — 
And  thus  accursed  be  the  day  and  year 
She  sent  a  Pict  to  play  the  felon  here. 
Yet  Caledonia  claims  some  native  worth, 
And  dull  Boeotia  gave  a  Pisbab  birth. 
So  may  her  few,  the  letter'd  and  the  brave, 
Bound  to  no  clime,  and  victors  o'er  the  grave, 
Shake  off  the  mossy  slime  of  such  a  land, 
And  shine  like  children  of  a  happier  strand. 


67 


bnce  of  yore,  in  some  obnoxious  place, 

i  names  (if  found)  had  savM  a  wretched  race. 

i 

fortal!  (the  blue-eyed  maid  resumed  once  more) 
r  back  my  mandate  to  thy  native  shore; 
>ugh  fallen,  alas!  this  vengeance  yet  is  mine, 
turn  my  counsels  far  from  lands  like  thine. 
ir,  then,  in  silence,  Pallas'  stern  behe6t, 
ir  and  believe,  for  time  will  tell  the  rest: 
^t  on  the  head  of  him  who  did  the  deed 
curse  shall  light,  on  him  and  all  his  seed; 
ihout  one  spark  of  intellectual  fire, 
all  his  sons  as  senseless  as  their  sire: 
ne  with  wit  the  parent  breed  disgrace, 
ieve  him  bastard  of  a  better  race: 
1  with  his  hireling  artists  let  him  prate, 
I  Folly's  praise  repay  for  Wisdom's  hate.* 

i 

*  "  Nor  will  this  conduct  [the  sacrilegious  plunder  of  ancient 
fices]  appear  wonderful  in  men,  either  by  birth,  or  by  habits 
I  grovelling  passions,  barbarians,  fi.  e.  Goths)  when  in  our 
a  times,  and  almost  before  our  own  eyes,  persons  of  rank 
1  education  have  not  hesitated  to  disfigure  the  most  ancient 
.  the  most  venerable  monuments  of  Grecian  architecture;  to 
I  the  works  of  Phidias  and  Praxiteles  from  their  original  po- 
rn, and  demolish  fabrics,  which  time,  war,  and  barbarism, 
[  respected  during  twenty  centuries.  The  French,  whose 
•acity  the  voice  of  Europe  has  so  loudly  and  so  justly  cen- 
ed,  did  not  incur  the  guilt  of  dismantling  ancient  edifices: 
y  spared  the  walls,  and  contented  themselves  with  statues 
i  paintings,  and  even  these  they  have  collected  and  arranged 
rails  and  galleries,  for  the  inspection  of  travellers  of  all  na- 
is;  while, if  report  does  not  deceive  us,  our  plunderers  have 


68 


Long  of  their  -patron's  guaio  let  them  tell, 
Whose  noblest  native  gusto— is  to  sell: 
To  sell,  and  make  (may  shame  record  the  day) 
The  state  receiver  of  his  pilferM  prey! 


ransacked  the  temples  of  Greece  to  sell  their  booty  to  the  hig 
bidder,  or,  at  best,  to  piece  the  walls  of  some  obscure  old  n 
sion  with  fragments  of  Parian  marble,  and  of  attic  sculptu 
(Eustace's  Classical  Tour  through  Italy,  p.  158).  *****" 
alas!  all  the  monuments  of  Roman  magnificence,  all  the 
mains  of  Grecian  taste,  so  dear  to  the  artist,  the  historian, 
antiquary;  all  depend  on  the  will  of  an  arbitrary  sovere 
and  that  will  is  influenced  too  often  by  interest  or  vanity,  1 
nephew,  or  a  sycophant.  Is  a  new  palace  to  be  erected 
Rome)  for  an  upstart  family?  the  Coliseum  is  stripped  to 
nish  materials.  Does  a  foreign  minister  wish  to  adorn 
bleak  walls- of  a  northern  castle  with  antiques.'  the  temple 
Theseus  or  Minerva  must  be  dismantled,  and  the  works  of  1 
dias  or  Praxiteles  be  torn  from  the  shattered  frieze.  Ths 
decrepid  uncle,  wrapt  up  in  the  religious  dHties  of  his  age 
station,  should  listen  to  the  suggestions  of  an  interested 
phew,  is  natural;  and  that  an  oriental  despot  should  undervt 
the  master-pieces  of  Grecian  art,  is  to  be  expected;  thoug 
both  eases  the  consequences  of  such  weakness  are  much  ti 
lamented;  but  that  the  minister  of  a  nation,  famed  for  its  kn 
ledge  of  the  language,  audits  veneration  for  the  monument 
ancient  Greece,  should  have  been  the  prompter  and  the  ins 
ment  of  these  destructions  is  almost  incredible.  Such  rapa 
is  a  crime  against  all  ages  and  all  generations:  it  deprives 
past,  of  the  trophies  of  their  genius  and  the  title-deeds  of  t 
fame;  the  present,  of  the  strongest  inducements  to  exen 
the  noblest  exhibitions  that  curiosity  can  contemplate; 
future,  of  the  master-pieces  of  art,  the  models  of  imitation, 
guard  against  the  repetition  of  such  depredations  is  the  wis 
ever)'  man  of  genius,  the  duty  of  every  man  in  power,  and 
common  interest  of  every  civilized  nation."  (Ibid.  p.  S 
»  *  *  *  ■  This  attempt  to  transplant  the  temple  of  V 
from  Italy  to  England  may.  perhaps,  do  honour  to  the  late 
BristoPs  patriotism,  or  to  his  magnificence;  but  it  cannot 
considered  as  an  indication  of  either  taste  or  judgment."  (I 
p.  419). 


69 


ntime,  the  flattering  feeble  dotard  West, 
pe's  worst  dauber,  and  poor  Britain's  best, 

I  palsied  hand  shall  turn  each  model  o'er, 
own  himself  an  infant  of  fourscore*— 

II  the  bruisers  call'd  from  all  St.  Giles, 

:  Art  and  Nature  may  compare  their  styles: 
le  brawny  brutes  in  stupid  wonder  stare 
marvel  at  bis  lordship's  "  stone  shop"  there-}" 
id  tbe  throng'd  gate  shall  sauntering  eoxeombs 

creep 
ounge  and  lucubrate,  to  prate  and  peep, 
le  many  a  languid  maid  with  longing  sigh, 
■iant  statues  easts  the  curious  eye — 
room  with  transient  glance  appears  to  skim, 
marks  the  mighty  back  and  length  of  limb, 
ms  o'er  the  difference  of  now  and  then, 
aims — "  These   Greeks,  indeed,  were    proper 

menh- 
irs sly  comparisons  of  these  with  those, 
envies  Lais  all  her  Attic  beaux, 
rn  shall  a  modern  maid  have  swains  like  thesef 
would  Sir  Harry  were  yon  Hercules! 


Mr.  West,  on  seeing  the  "  Elgin  collection"  (I  suppose 
hall  hear  of  the  Aber-show  and  "  Jack  Shephard's  eollec- 
declared  himself  a  mere  "  Tyro  in  art" 

Poor  Crib  was  sadly  puzzled  when  exhibited  at  E.  Houser 
sked  if  it  was  not  a  M  a  stone  shop."-He  was  right— it  is  a 


70 


And  last  of  all,  amid  the  gaping  crew, 

Some  calm  spectator,  as  he  takes  his  view* 

In  silent  admiration,  mix'd  with  grief, 

Admires  the  plunder,  hut  abhors  the  thief. 

Loathed  in  life,  scarce  pardoned  in  the  dust, 

May  hate  pursue  his  sacrilegious  lust; 

Link'd  with  the  fool  who  fired  th'  Ephesian  dome, 

Shall  vengeance  follow  far  beyond  the  tomb. 

Erostratus  and  Elgin  e'er  shall  shine 

In  many  a  branding  page  and  burning  line. 

Alike  condemn'd,  for  aye  to  stand  accursed, 

Perchance  the  second  viler  than  the  first; 

So  let  hira  stand,  through  ages  yet  unborn, 

Fix'd  statue  on  the  pedestal  of  Scorn! 

Though  not  for  him  alone  revenge  shall  wait, 

But  fits  thy  country  for  her  coming  fate; 

Her's  were  the  deeds  that  taught  her  lawless  son 

To  do  what  oft  Britannia's  self  had  done — 

Look  to  the  Baltic — blazing  from  afar, 

Your  old  ally  yet  mourns  perfidious  war — 

Not  to  such  deeds  did  Pallas  lend  her  aid, 

Or  break  the  compact  which  herself  had  made; 

Par  from  such  councils,  from  the  faithless  field 

She  fled — but  left  behind  her  Gorgon  shield, 

A  fatal  gift,  that  turn'd  your  friends  to  stone, 

And  left  lost  Albion  hated  and  alone. 

*  Un  sot  trouve  tonjours  un  flas  sot  qui  l'admiie;— (Boila 
La  RvchefoucaulU  &e.) 


71* 


Liook  to  the  east,  where  Ganges'  swarthy  race 
ill  shake  your  tyrant  empire  to  its  base, 
!  there  Rebellion  rears  her  ghastly  head, 
d  glares  the  Nemesis  of  native  dead, 
1  Indus  rolls  a  deep  purpureal  flood, 

d  claims  his  long  arrear  of  northern  blood 

may  ye  perish— Pallas,  when  she  gave 
ii'  free  born  rights,  forbade  ye  to  enslave. 

)kon  yon  Spain,  she  clasps  the  hand  she  hates, 
t  coldly  clasps,  and  thrusts  you  from  her  gates — 
br  witness,  bright  Barossa!  thou  can'st  tell 
jiose  were  the  sons  that  bravely  fought  and  fell— 
I  Lusitania,  kip.d  and  dear  ally! 
^  spare  a  few  to  fight,  and  sometimes  fly; 
glorious  field!  by  famine  fiercely  won, 
p  Gaul  retires  for  once,  and  all  is  done! 
1  when  did  Pallas  teach  that  one  retreat 
jrieved  three  long  Olympiads  of  defeat. 

(k  last  at  home— ye  love  not  to  look  there, 
the  grim  smile  of  comfortless  Despair;    .     . 
;V  city  saddens,  loud  though  revel  howls, 
je  Famine  faints,  and  yonder  Rapine  prowls, 
i  all  alike  of  more  or  less  bereft — 

misers  tremble  when  there's  nothing  left 

lest  paper  credit,"  who  shall  dare  to  sing? 
»ogs  like  lead  Corruption's  weary  wing; 


Yet  Fallas  pluck'd  each  premier  by  the  ear, 
Who  gods  aud  men  alike  disdained  to  hear. 
But  oue  repentant  o'er  a  bankrupt  state, 
On  Pallas  calls,  but  calls,  alas!  too  late; 
Then  raves  for  Stanhope,  to  that  Mentor  bends, 
Though  he  and  Pallas  never  yet  were  friends, 
Him  senates  hear,  whom  never  yet  they  heard, 
Contemptuous  once,  and  now  no  less  absurd — 
So  once  of  yore,  each  reasonable  frog 
Swore  faith  and  fealty  to  his  sovereign  "  Log" — 
Thus  hail'd  your  rulers  their  patrician  clod, 
As  Egypt  chose  an  onion  for  a  god. 

Now  fare  ye  well!  enjoy  your  little  hour, 
Go  grasp  the  shadow  of  your  vanish'd  power: 
Gloss  o'er  the  failure  of  each  fondest  scheme 
Your  strength  a  name,  your  bloated  wealth  a  dream 
Gone  is  that  gold,  the  marvel  of  mankind, 
And  pirates  barter  all  that's  left  behind;* 
No  more  the  hirelings,  purchas'd  near  and  far, 
Crowd  to  the  rauks  of  mercenary  war; 
The  idle  merchant,  on  the  useless  quay 
Droops  o'er  the  bales  no  bark  may  bear  away, 
Or  back  returning  sees  rejected  stores 
Rob  piecemeal  on  his  own  encumbered  shores; 
The  starv'd  mechanic  breaks  his  rusting  loom, 
And  desperate  mans  him  'g;»inst  the  common  dooH 

*  The  Deal  and  Dover  trafickers  in  spe«ie. 


7^ 


en,  in  the  senate  of  your  sinking  state, 
>w  me  the  man  whose  counsels  may  have  weight; 
n  is  each  voice,  where  tones  could  once  command, 
;n  factions  cease  to  charm  a  factious  land; 
t  jarring  sects  convulse  a  sister  isle, 
d  light  with  maddening  hands  the  mutual  pile. 
s  done — 'tis  past — since  Pallas  warns  in  vain 
e  Furies  seize  her  abdicated  reign; 
de  o'er  the  realm  they  wake  their  kindling  brands, 
d  wring  her  vitals  with  their  fiery  hands, 
t  one  convulsive  struggle  still  remains, 
id  Gaul  shall  weep  ere  Albion  wear  her  chains; 
e  banner'd  pomp  of  war,  the  glittering  files, 
;r  whose  gay  trappings  stern  Bellona  smiles; 
e  brazen  trump,  the  spirit-stirring  drum, 
»at  bids  the  foe  defiance  e'er  they  come, 
ie  hero  bounding  at  his  country's  call, 
ie  glorious  death  that  decorates  his  fall, 
ell  the  young  heart  with  visionary  charms, 
id  bids  it  antedate  the  joys  of  arms; 
it  know  a  lesson  you  may  yet  be  taught, 
ith  death  alone  are  laurels  cheaply  bought; 
)t  in  the  conflict  Havoc  seeks  delight, 
s  day  of  mercy  is  the  day  of  fight; 
it  when  the  field  is  fought,  the  battle  won, 
lough  drench'd  in  gore,  his  woes  are  but  begun, 
s  deeper  deeds  as  yet  ye  know  by  name, 
ie  slaughter'd  peasant  and  the  ravish'd  dame, 
D 


74 


The  rifled  mansion,  and  the  foe-reap'd  field 
111  suit  with  souls  at  home  untaught  to  yield. 
Say,  with  -what  eye  along  the  distant  down 
Would  flying  hurghers  mark  the  blazing  town? 
How  view  the  column  of  ascending  flames, 
Shake  his  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thames? 
Nay,  frown  not  Albion,  for  the  torch  was  thine, 
That  lit  such  pyres  fr  :m  Tagus  to  the  Rhine: 
Now,  should  they  burst  on  thy  devoted  coast, 
Go,  ask  thy  bosom  who  deserves  them  most — 
The  law  of  heaven  and  earth  is  life  for  life, 
And  she  who  rais'd  in  vain  regrets  the  strife. 


75 


ODE 


TO 


'HE  ISLAND  OF  ST.  HELENA. 


I. 

!  PEACE  to  thee,  isle  of  the  ocean! 
Hail  to  thy  breezes  and  billows! 
Where,  rolling  its  tides,  in  perpetual  devotioe, 
The  white  wave  its  plumy  surf  pillows' 
a  shall  the  chaplet  be  history  shall  weave  thee! 
yhose  undying  verdure  shall  bloom  on  thy  brow* 
en  nations  that  now  in  obscurity  leave  thee, 
o  the  wand  of  oblivion  alternately  bow! 
hang'd  in  thy  glory — unstainM  in  thy  fame-j- 
|  homage  of  ages  shall  hallow  thy  name! 

2. 
!  Hail  to  the  chief  who  reposes 

On  thee  the  rich  weight  of  his  glory! 
.When  fill'd  to  its  limit,  life's  chronicle  closes, 

His  deeds  shall  be  sacred  in  story! 


76 


His  prowess  shall  rank  with  the  first  of  all  ageaJ 
And  monarchs  hereafter  shall  bow  to  his  woi" 

The  songs  of  the  poets — the  lessons  of  sages, — 
Shall  hold  him  the  wonder  and  grace  of  the  < 

The  meteors  of  history  before  thee  shall  fall — 

Eclips'd  by  thy  splendor — thou  meteor  of  Gaul! 

3. 
Hygeian  breezes  shall  fan  thee— 

Island  of  glory  resplendant! 
Pilgrims  from  nations  far  distant  shall  man  tt 
Tribes,  as  thy  waves,  independent! 
©n  thy  far  gleaming  strand  the  wanderer  shal 
him 
To  snatch  a  brief  glance  at  a  spot  so  renown*! 
Each  turf  and  each  stone,  and  eaeh  cliff  shall 
him, 
Where  the  step  of  thy  exile  hath  hallow'd 
ground! 
From  him  shalt  thou  borrow  a  lustre  divine — 
The  wane  of  his  sun  was  the  rising  of  thine! 

4. 

Whose  were  the  hands  that  enslav'd  him?' 
Hands  which  had  weakly  withstood  him 

Nations  which  while  they  had  oftentimes  I 
him, 
Itever  till  now  had  subdued  him! 


77 


archs — who  oft  to  his  clemency  stooping, 
pceivM  back  their  crowns  from  the  plunder  of 
war — 
vanquisher  vanquish'd — the  eagle  now  droop- 
ing— 
iTould  quench  with  their  sternness  the  ray  of  his 

star! 
cloth'd  in  new  splendor  the  glory  appears — 
.  rules  the  ascendant — the  planet  of  years, 

5. 
Pure  be  the  health  of  thy  mountains! 
Rich  be  the  green  of  thy  pastures! 
Limpid  and  lasting  the  streams  of  thy  fountains! 

Thine  annals  unstain'd  by  disasters! 
reme  in  the  ocean  a  rich  altar  swelling 
SThose  shrine  shall  be  hail'd  by  the  prayers  of  man- 
kind— 
rock  beach  thetrage  of  the  tempest  repelling — 
he  wide  wasting  contest  of  wave  and  of  wind — 
ft  on  thy  battlements  long  be  unfurlM 
2  eagle  that  decks  thee — the  pride  of  the  world! 

6. 
Pade  shall  the  lily,  now  blooming — 

Where  is  the  hand  which  can  nurse  it' 
Uations  who  rear'd  it  shall  watch  its  consuming — 

Untimely  mildews  shall  curse  it. 


78 

Then  shall  the  violet  that  blooms  in  the  valhes 
Impart  to  the  gale  its  reviving  perfume — 

Then  when  the  spirit  of  liberty  rallies 

To  chant  forth  its  anthems  on  tyranny's  tomb, 

Wide  Europe  shall  fear  lest  thy  star  should  br 
forth, 

Eclipsing  the  pestilent  orbs  of  the  north! 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER, 

ON  THE 

MORNING  OF  HER  BIRTH. 
1. 

HAIL— to  this  teeming  stage  of  strife- 
Hail,  lovely  miniature  of  life! 
Pilgrim  of  many  cares  untold! 
Lamb  of  the  world's  extended  foldl 
Fountain  of  hopes  and  doubts  and  fearti 
Sweet  promise  of  ecstatic  years! 
How  could  I  fainly  bend  the  knee, 
And  turn  idolater  to  thee! 

2. 
'Tis  nature's  worship — felt — confess'd, 
Far  as  the  life  which  warms  the  breast: — 
.  The  sturdy  savage,  'midst  his  clan, 
The  rudest  portraiture  of  man, 
In  trackless  woods  and  boundless  plains, 
Where  everlasting  wildness  reigns, 
Owns  the  still  tbrob — the  secret  start — 
The  hidden  impulse  of  the  heart- 


3. 
Dear  babe!  ere  yet  upon  thy  years 
The  soil  of  human  vice  appears— 
Ere  Passion  hath  disturb'd  thy  cheek, 
And  prompted  what  thou  dai^st  not  speak- 
Ere  that  pale  lip  is  blanch'd  with  Care, 
Or  from  those  eyes  shoot  fierce  Despair, 
Would  I  could  wake  thine  untun'd  ear, 
And  gust  it  with  a  father's  pray'r. 

4. 
But  little  reck'st  thou,  oh  my  child! 
Of  travail  on  life's  thorny  wild! 
Of  all  the  dangers — -all  the  woes 
Each  tottering  footstep  which  inclose— 
Ah,  little  reck'st  thou  of  the  scene 
So  darkly  wrought  that  spreads  between 
The  little  all  we  here  can  find, 
And  the  dark  mystic  sphere  behind! 

5. 
Little  reck'st  thou,  my  earliest  born— 
Of  clouds  which  gather  round  thy  morn— 
Of  acts  to  lure  thy  soul  astray— 
Of  snares  that  intersect  thy  way — 
Of  secret  foes — of  friends  untrue — 
Of  fiends  who  stab  the  hearts  they  woo — 


SI 

Little  thou  reck'st  of  this  sad  store- 
Would  thou  might'st  never  reck  them  more! 

6. 
But  thou  -wilt  hurst  this  transient  sleep— 
And  thou  wilt  wake,  my  babe,  to  weep— 
The  tenant  of  a  frail  abode, 
Thy  tears  must  flow,  as  mine  have  flow'd— 
Beguil'd  by  follies,  every  day, 
Sorrow  must  wash  the  faults  away — 
And  thou  may'st  wake  perchance,  to  prove. 
The  pang  of  unrequited  lore. 

f. 

Unconscious  babe!  though  on  that  brow 
No  half-fledgM  misery  nestles  now- 
Scarce  round  those  placid  lips  a  smile 
Maternal  fondness  shall  beguile, 
Ere  the  moist  footsteps  of  a  tear 
Shall  plant  their  dewy  traces  there, 
And  prematurely  pave  the  way 
For  sorrows  of  a  riper  day. 

8. 
Oh!  could  a  father's  pray'r  repel 
The  eye's  sad  grief— the  bosom's  swell' 
Or  could  a  father  hope  to  bear 
A  darling  child's  allotted  care— 
D   2 


82 


Then  thou,  my  babe,  shoulcfst  slumber  still, 
Exempted  from  all  human  ill, 
A  parent's  love  thy  peace  should  free, 
And  ask  its  wounds  again  for  thee. 

9. 

Sleep  on,  my  child;  the  slumber  brief 
Too  soon  shall  melt  away  to  grief — 
Too  soon  the  dawn  of  wo  shall  break, 
And  briny  rills  bedew  that  cheek — 
Too  soon  shall  Sadness  quench  those  eyes — 
That  breast  be  agoniz'd  with  sighs — 
And  Anguish  o'er  the  beams  of  noon 
Lead  clouds  of  Care — ah!  much  too  soon! 

10. 
Soon  wilt  thou  reck  of  cares  unknown— 
Of  wants  and  sorrows  all  their  own— 
Of  many  a  pang,  and  many  a  wo, 
That  thy  dear  sex  alone  can  know — r 
Of  many  an  ill — untold — unsung; — 
That  will  not — may  not  find  a  tongue— 
But  kept  conceal'd,  without  control, 
Spread  the  fell  cancers  of  the  soul! 

11. 

Yet  be  thy  lot,  my  babe,  more  blest — 
May  Joy  still  animate  thy  breast! 


83 

Still,  'midst  thy  least  propitious  days, 
Shedding  its  rich  inspiring  rays! 
A  father's  heart  shall  daily  bear 
Thy  name  upon  its  secret  pray'r — 
And  as  he  seeks  his  last  repose, 
Thine  image  ease  life's  parting  throes. 

12. 
Then  hail,  sweet  miniature  of  life! 
Hail,  to  this  teeming  stage  of  strife! 
Pilgrim  of  many  cares  untold! 
Lamb  of  the  world's  extended  fold! 
Fountain  of  hopes  and  doubts  and  fears! 
Sweet  promise  of  extatic  years! 
How  could  I  fainly  bend  the  knee, 
And  turn  idolater  to  thee! 


M 


TO   THE 


LILY  OF  FRANCE. 

I. 
JErE  thou  scatterest  thy  leaf  to  the  wind, 

False  emblem  of  innocence,  stay — 
And  yield  as  thou  fad'st,  for  the  use  of  mankind, 

The  lesson  that  marks  thy  decay. 

2. 
Thou  wert  fair  as  the  beam  of  the  morn— 

And  rich  as  the  pride  of  the  mine:— 
Thy  charms  are  all  faded,  and  hatred  and  scorn — 

The  curses  of  Freedom,  are  thine. 

3. 
Thou  wert  gay  in  the  smiles  of  the  world—* 

Thy  shadow  protection  and  power- 
But  now  thy  bright  blossom  is  shrivell'd  and  curl'd- 

The  grace  of  thy  country  no  more. 

4. 
For  Corruption  hath  fed  on  thy  leaf — 
And,  Bigotry  weaken'd  thy  stem — 


§5 


those  who  have  fearM  thee,  shall  smile  at  thy 
grief, 
^nd  those  who  ador'd  thee  condemn. 

5. 

e  valley  that  gave  thee  thy  birth 
Shall  weep  for  the  hope  of  its  soil— 
e  legions,  that  fought  for  thy  beauty  and  worth, 
Shall  hasten  to  share  in  thy  spoil. 

6. 
a  bye-word,  thy  blossom  shall  be 
A  mock  and  a  jest  among  men — 
e  proverb  of  slaves,  and  the  sneer  of  the  free, 
in  city,  and  mountain,  and  glen. 

7. 
!  'twas  Tyranny's  pestilent  gale 
rhat  scatter'd  thy  buds  on  the  ground — 
at  threw  the  blood-stain  on  thy  virgin-white  veil — - 
And  pierc'd  thee  with  many  a  wound! 

8. 
ien  thy  puny  leaf  shook  to  the  wind— 
I*hy  stem  gave  its  strength  to  the  blast,— 
ty  full  bursting  blossom  its  promise  resign'd, 
And  fell  to  the  storm  as  it  pass'd. 


8G 


For  no  patriot  vigour  was  there — 
No  arm  to  support  the  weak  flow'r, 

Destruction  pursued  its  dark  herald — Despair— 
And  wither'd  its  grace  in  an  hour. 

10. 
Yet  there  were  who  pretended  to  grieve — 

There  were  who  pretended  to  save — 
Mere  shallow  empyrics  who  came  to  deceive — 

To  revel  and  sport  on  its  grave— 

11. 

Oh  thou  land  of  the  lily,  in  vain 

Thou  strugglest  to  raise  its  pale  head! 

The  faded  bud  never  shall  blossom  again— 
The  violet  will  bloom  in  its  stead! 

12. 
As  thou  scatterest  thy  leaf  to  the  wind — 

False  emblem  of  innocence,  stay — 
And  yield,  as  thou  fad'st,  for  the  use  of  mankind 

This  lesson  to  mark  thy  decay! 


87 


MADAME  LAV ALETTE. 

ST  Edinburgh  critics  overwhelm  with  their  praises 
Their    Madame    de    Staee,   and    their  fam'd 

L'Epinasse: 
ike  a  meteor  at  best,  proud  Philosophy  blazes, 
And  the  fame  of  a  Wit  is  as  brittie  as  glass: 
it  cheering*  s  the  beam,  and  unfading  the  splendour 
Of  thy  torch,  Wedded  Love!  and  it  never  has  yet 
aone  with  lustre    more  holy,  more  pure,    or  more 

tender, 
Than  it  sheds  on  the  name  of  the  fair  Lay  alette. 

hen  fill  high  the  wine-cup,  e'en  Virtue  shall  bless  it, 

And  hallow  the  goblet  which  foams  to  her  name; 
?he  warm  lip  of  Beauty  shall  piously  press  it, 

And  Hymen  shall  honour  the  pledge  to  her  fame: 
'o  the  health  of  the  Woman,  who  freedom  and  life 
too 

Has  risk'd  for  her  Husband,  we'll  pay  the  just  debt; 
ind  hail  with  applauses  the  Heroine  and  Wife  too, 

The  constant,  the  noble,  the  fair  Lavalette. 

ier  foes  have  awarded,  in  impotent  malice, 
To  their  captive  a  doom,  which  all  Europe  abhors- 


ss 


And  turns  from  the  stairs  of  the  Priest-haunted  pal 
While   those  who  replaced  them  there,  blush 
their  cause: 
But,  in  ages  to  come,  when  the  blood-tarnish' d  gloi 
Of  dukes,  and  of  marshals,  in  darkness  hath  set, 
Hearts  shall  throb,  eyes  shall  glisten,  at  reading  i 
story 
Of  the  fond  self-devotion  of  fair  Lav  alette. 


89 


ADIEU  TO  MALTA. 

Ldieu  the  joys  of  La  Valette; 
Ldieu  sirocco,  sun,  and  sweat; 
Ldieu  thou  palace,  rarely  eutered; 
Ldieu  ye  mansions,  where  I've  ventured.; 
Ldieu  ye  cursed  streets  of  stairs — 
low  surely  he  who  mounts  them  swears; 
Ldeiu  ye  merchants,  often  failing; 
kdieu  thou  mob,  for  ever  railing; 
Ldieu  ye  packets  without  letters; 
Ldieu  ye  fools,  who  ape  your  betters: 
Ldieu  thou  damn'dest  quarantine, 
rhat  gave  me  fever  and  the  spleen: 
Ldieu  that  stage  which  makes  us  yawn,  sirs; 
Ldieu  his  excellency's  dancers; 
Ldieu  to  Peter,  whom  no  fault's  in, 
lut  could  not  teach  a  colonel  waltzing; 
Ldieu  ye  females,  fraught  with  graces; 
Ldieu  red  coats,  and  redder  faces; 
Ldieu  the  supercilious  air, 
)f  all  that  strut  en  miliiaire; 
go — but  God  knows  where  or  why— 
•o  §moky  towns  .and  cloudy  sky; 


90 

To  things,  the  honest  truth  to  say, 
As  bad,  but  in  a  different  way: — 
Farewell  to  these,  but  not  adieu 
Triumphant  sons  of  truest  blue, 
While  either  Adriatic  shore, 
And  fallen  chiefs,  and  fleets  no  more, 
And  nightly  smiles,  and  daily  dinners, 
Proclaim  you  war  and  women's  winners. 

Pardon  my  muse,  who  apt  to  prate  is; 
And  take  my  rhyme  because  'tis  gratis: 
And  bow  I've  got  to  Mrs.  Fraser, 
Perhaps  you  think  I  mean  to  praise  hen 
And  were  I  vain  enough  to  think 
My  praise  was  worth  this  drop  of  ink, 
A  line  or  two  were  no  hard  matter, 
As  here,  indeed,  I  need  not  flatter: 
But  she  must  be  content  to  shine 
In  better  praises  than  in  mine: 
"With  lively  air  and  open  heart, 
And  fashion's  ease  without  its  art, 
Her  hours  can  gajly  gbde  along, 
Nor  ask  the  aid  of  idle  song. 

And  now,  Oh,  Malta!  since  thou'st  got  us, 
Thou  little  military  hot-house! 
I'll  not  offend  with  words  uncivil, 
And  wish  thee  rudely  at  the  devil — 


91 


tat  only  stare  from,  out  my  easement, 
ind  ask— for  what  is  such  a  place  meant; 
hen,  in  my  solitary  nook, 
teturn  to  scribbling,  or  a  book; 
>r  take  my  physio,  while  I'm  able, 
'wo  spoonfuls,  hourly,  by  this  label; 
'efer  my  nightcap  to  my  beaver, 
ind  bless  my  stars,  I've  got  a  fe^er, 


92 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  THE  WHALI 

Io  Paean!  Io'.  sing 
To  the  finny  people's  king — 
Not  a  mightier  whale  than  this 
In  the  vast  Atlantic  is; 
Not  a  fatter  fish  than  he 
Flounders  round  the  polar  sea; 
See  his  blubher — at  his  gills 
What  a  world  of  drink  he  swills! 
From  his  trunk  as  from  a  spout 
Which  next  moment  he  pours  out. 
Such  his  person:  next  declare 

Muse!  who  his  companions  are; 
Every  fish  of  generous  kind 

Scuds  aside  or  slinks  behind. 

But  about  his  person  keep 

All  the  monsters  of  the  deep; 

Mermaids  with  their  tails  and  singing 

His  delighted  fancy  stinging — 

Crooked  dolphins,  they  surround  him, 

Dog  like  seals,  they  fawn  around  him: 

Following  hard,  the  progress  mark 

Of  the  intolerant  salt  sea  shark — 

For  his  solace  and  relief 

Flat-fish  are  his  courtiers  chief— 


93 

Last,  and  lowest  in  his  train; 

Ink  fish,  libellers  of  the  main, 

Their  black  liquor  shed  in  spite — 

(Such  on  earth  the  things  that  write) 

In  his  stomach,  some  do  say 

No  good  thing  can  ever  stay; 

Had  it  been  the  fortune  of  it 

To  have  swallowed  the  old  prophet, 

Three  days  there  he'd  not  have  dwell'd, 

But  in  one  have  been  expell'd. 

Hapless  mariners  are  they 

Who  beguil'd,  as  seamen  say, 

Deeming  it  some  rock  or  island, 

Footing  sure,  safe  spot  and  dry  land, 

Anchor  in  his  scaly  rind; 

Soon  the  difference  they  find, 

Sudden,  plump,  he  sinks  beneath  them— - 

Does  to  ruthless  waves  bequeath  them: 

;Name  or  title,  what  has  he? 

Ife  he  regent  of  the  sea? 

From  the  difficulty  free  ub 

Buffon,  Banks,  or  sage  Linnxus! 

With  his  wondrous  attributes, 

iSay — what  appellation  suits? 

By  his  bulk,  and  by  his  size, 

By  his  oily  qualities, 

This,  or  else  my  eye-sight  fails — 

This  should  be  the  Prince  of  Whales/ 


94 


LINES, 

On  a  visit  to  the  tombs  of  the  Capulets: 

Fam'd  for  their  civil  and  domestic  quarrels 
See  heartless  Henry  lies  by  headless  Charles: 
Between  them  stands  another  scepter'd  thing, 
It  lives,  it  moves,  in  all  but  name,  a  king- 
Charles  to  his  people— Henry  to  his  wife, 
The  double  tyrant  starts  again  to  life- 
Justice  and  Death  have  mix'd  their  dust  in  vain 
Each  royal  vampire  wakes  to  life  again. — 
Ah!  what  can  tombs  avail,  when  these  disgorge 
Two  such  to  make  aR#***xinaG****« 


95 


following  lines  -were  -written  by  Mr.  Fitzgerald, 
In  a  copy  of  English  Bards  and  Scotch  fievietv- 
srs: — 

fibtd  lord  Byron  scorns  my  muse— 

Our  fates  are  ill  agreed! 
is  verse  is  safe — I  can't  abuse 

Those  lines  I  never  read. 

W.  F.  F. 


lordship  accidently  fell  upon  the  copy,  and  sub- 
joined the  folio-wing  pungent  reply:— 

it's  writ  on  me,  cried  Fitz,  I  never  read — 
it's  wrote  by  thee,  dear  Fitz,  none  will  indeed— 

case  stands  simply  thus,  then,  honest  Fitz! 
a  and  thine  enemies  are  fairly  quits.— 
ather  -would  be,  if  for  time  to  come, 
y  luckily  were  deaf,  or  thou  wert  dumb-* 
lo  their  pens,  while  scribblers  add  their  tongues, 

waiter  only  can  escape  their  lungs. 


96 


ADDITIONAL  STAKZA 

TO  A  LADY  WEEPING. 

Blest  omens  of  a  happy  reign 
In  swift  succession  hourly  rise, 

Deserted  friends,  vows  made  in  Tain, 
A  daughter's  tears,  a  nation's  sighs' 


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